Untold Weasley Tales
by lionesseyes13
Summary: In this series, the oldest Weasley brother grows from a two year old wizard who won't eat his turnips to a grown wizard in his own right. Enjoy his adventures with his brothers at home and at school.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, in case you thought I was, and, therefore, the characters, setting, and all the other things that remind you of Harry Potter are not mine; they are hers, and I'm just borrowing them. I'm not trying to make any money off it, and I'm not worth suing, as I don't have much money, anyway, so you'll probably be poorer after the lawsuit.

Author's Note: Since Bill is two-years-old in this story, he does not have perfect grammar, obviously, so excuse his faulty grammar. Since I put it there intentionally, it's not me displaying ignorance of the English language. That being said, if you notice any spelling or grammar errors outside of dialogue, tell me, and I will fix it, if I remember, that is. Regarding Weasley ages, I'm going by what J.K. Rowling says, as much as possible (yes, I was a nerd to look it all up, and will tell you the ages of the Weasleys as I use them), so, Bill's born on November 29, 1970, Charlie's born on December 12, 1972, and Molly and Arthur won't say how old they are.

I am now at the point where I am going back, and editing all my chapters, so if you see "Edited" before a chapter starts, that means that I have looked over it, and corrected any spelling and grammar errors I could find therein, so if you spot any errors in an edited chapter, please tell me, because chances are if you don't they will remain there forevermore, as Poe's raven would say.

Reviews: Are always welcome. If you like it, say so. If you don't, tell me why you don't, so I can improve, and if you spot errors, whether you like the story or not, say something, otherwise it may very well go unfixed. Anyone who reviews will get crackers, and doesn't have to eat turnips.

Warnings: None that I can think of, unless turnips still scare you (It's all right, I still don't like them).

"Wanna Have Crackers" (Edited)

"I'm hungry, Mummy," two-year-old Bill Weasley moaned, fixing pleading dark eyes on his mother. "Wanna have crackers."

"Hush now," ordered Mrs. Weasley somewhat distractedly as she nursed his new baby brother, Charlie. "I'm feeding Charlie right now, and I can't Summon them for you, because I've got my hands full with him."

"Why you feeding Charlie when I'm the one hungry?"

"Charlie's hungry too, dear, only he can't express himself as well as you, because he's little..."

"I'm little, too," muttered a sullen and starving Bill.

"And he requires more attention," his mother continued, ignoring the interjection. "I'll get you the crackers when I'm done feeding him. Just be patient, honey."

"But I'm hungry now, Mummy, not later. Don't want to wait. Don't want to be patient. Want crackers. Need crackers," the child insisted, hands on hips.

"You'll have to wait. Mummy can't do two things at once."

"I'll get crackers by myself, if meanie Mummy won't get them for me," pouted Bill, stomping off into the kitchen. Unfortunately, the crackers were on the top shelf, and there was no way in which the two-year-old could reach them by himself. Temporarily stymied, his eyes scanned the room. After a moment, they lit upon a chair, which he pulled, with some difficulty, over to the cabinet. Sadly, he was still unable to garb a hold of the crackers, so he climbed onto the counter, which was higher than the chair.

At that moment, Mr. Weasley entered, and laughed at the sight of the redheaded boy perched on tip-toes upon the counter, but he commanded steadily enough, "Off the counter now, please."

Bill, who had pivoted about when he heard his father enter, whirled back to face the cabinet once more, and stretched in an attempt to grab the cracker box. He shook his head as he redoubled his efforts. "Not getting down, Dad. Getting crackers."

"No," replied Mr. Weasley firmly. "You're getting off the counter as I told you."

"After I get the crackers."

Mr. Weasley frowned, because his son was usually compliant. "You could try for a very long time to get hold of the crackers, and not succeed—you're too short. Now, off the counter. I don't want you to slip and fall—you know better than to stand on the counter, Bill! Just ask Mum or I to get the food for you."

"Asked Mum. She wouldn't get them for me," Bill answered, still attempting in a rather comical fashion to get the snack box.

"She wouldn't?" repeated a bemused Arthur Weasley, grabbing his son and gently removing him from the counter before the lad injured himself. "It's not near dinner. Were you naughty?"

"No, Dad." Bill shook his head vehemently, sending a lock of crimson hair into his eyes. "I was good. I always good. She feeding Charlie. Likes him better than me. Don't get it. He just poop and cry and sleep. Doesn't even talk. Boring."

"If she was feeding Charlie, that explains why she wasn't able to help you, then. You see, Bill, Charlie is younger than you, and he requires much care and attention from your mum and I. That being said, Mum and I are going to need your help." Mr. Weasley grabbed the cracker box and poured his son a bowl full of them.

"My help?" the boy echoed, pointing a bewildered finger at his chest as his father set the bowl filled with crackers on the kitchen table. He dashed over to devour them. He was starving.

"Yes, we're going to need you to be patient when we have to care for Charlie, and we're going to need you to play with him, look after him, and set a good example," continued Mr. Weasley, nodding. Watching Bill gobble his snack as though he hadn't eaten for a millennium, he hoped that the child was listening.

Apparently, he was, because he inquired softly, plaintively, "But who gonna take care of me, Daddy?"

"Your mother and I, of course," Mr. Weasley soothed, ruffling his child's hair affectionately. "We don't love you any less, we just have to share our love with Charlie as well now, just as you do. Hearts have infinite room, and love gets bigger, not smaller when we share it with more people, you know."

"Love not like cookies, then," concluded Bill reasonably, finishing his crackers. "I like cookies. Wanna cookie now."

"You can have one after dinner, for dessert."

"Wanna cookie now, not later, Dad."

"Things taste better if you wait for them."

"I don't wanna wait." Bill crossed his arms over his chest petulantly, his lower lip stuck out. "Hungry. Very hungry."

"Don't be ridiculous. You just consumed an entire bowl of crackers."

"Still hungry," the child persisted.

"You can wait for supper. You'll eat your entire meal for once if you're that hungry."

As it turned out, Bill, miraculously, was not hungry enough by dinner time to eat his turnips, although he had no trouble consuming the roast chicken and mashed potatoes served alongside it. Nor did he have trouble gulping down three whole glasses of milk. The turnips, however, were only being moved around his plate with his fork as they grew steadily colder. Finally, his mother had enough. "Stop playing with your food, Bill, and eat those poor turnips that I slaved over," she ordered.

"But, Mummy, I don't like turnips," scowled Bill, giving up on the aforementioned vegetable, and shoving his platter away from him, wearing a revolted expression.

"Of course you do. Everyone loves turnips."

"Daddy doesn't."

It was his mother's turn to glower. "Of course he does." Mr. Weasley, who was not overly fond of turnips, had the foresight to shove a particularly large spoonful of the vegetable into his mouth as his wife turned to him. "See he loves them, and so would you if you tried them."

"Don't like them," declared Bill stubbornly.

"Well, you're going to have to eat them anyhow, whether you like them or not," mother informed child, "because they're good for you."

"No, they aren't, Mum."

"Yes, they are, William Weasley," snapped Molly, her patience finally exhausted, "and you won't leave this table until every bite of turnip is swallowed, or you'll be a very sorry little boy."

An hour later, Bill was still sitting at the table, a plate of frigid turnips sitting menacingly before him. He was alone, because both his mum and dad had gone upstairs to put Charlie to bed, and he was bored, but he did not dare to get up. A sigh, his tenth, if he was counting correctly, escaped his lips, and he watched, dazedly, his feet kick steadily back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum. He thought he could hear footfalls on the stairwell, and the next minute his father, to his relief, not his mother, joined him in the kitchen.

Mr. Weasley sat down in the chair across from his little boy. "Still refusing to eat your turnips, huh?"

Bill nodded his head miserably.

"Come here." Mr. Weasley patted his knee with his hand. Obediently, Bill crossed over to his father, who scooped him up, and seated him on his knee. There was silence, then Arthur commented mildly, "They're not that bad, you know. You should at least try them again."

This was greeted with a headshake. "Too cold."

"I'll warm them up for you, all right?"

"I guess." Bill shrugged, and his father put the turnips on the stove to be reheated. Five minutes later, they were finished heating up, and Mr. Weasley placed the platter full of them before his son, who tentatively picked up a fork, then put it down again. "Can't do it. Don't like turnips."

"You have to eat if you want to be a big boy," wheedled Arthur.

"Don't wanna be a big boy, Dad. Wanna be a little boy forever."

"How can you be Charlie's big brother if you're not a big boy?"

"Don't wanna be Charlie's big brother! Don't wanna be anyone's big brother!" Bill exclaimed with surprising heat. Generally, he was calm, even if he could at times be stubborn.

There was a long pause, the silence heavy in the room, then, "Well, I'm afraid that you are Charlie's big brother, whether you like it or not, Bill. And you're going to have to eat those turnips whether you want to, or not." His tone was stern, which usually made Bill, who was really not a difficult child, stop misbehaving immediately.

Not this time. This time it had the exact opposite net result. Bill's brown eyes suddenly held a mischievous glint, and he stated quietly, defiantly, "I don't have to eat my turnips and you can't make me."

He was right. Before Arthur could stop him, he had smashed the dish of turnips against the wall. Fortunately, the plate was made of plastic, and, therefore, was not breakable, because the mess on the wall was enough to contend with at the moment.

"And I don't have to be a big brother, and you can't make me," Bill finished triumphantly, as his father waved his wand at the wall, and the turnips disappeared.

On a whole, Arthur Weasley considered himself to be an even-tempered man, certainly more emotionally stable than his wife, at the very least, but he could feel the blood in his veins boiling. After a long moment in which he reigned in his temper as best he could, he spoke in a level but icy voice, "William, if you ever do that again, I'll put you in time-out."

"You don't love me, Daddy. Mummy don't love me, either." Bill started sobbing.

Now that his son's rebellion had been transformed to tears, Mr. Weasley softened, and stroked the boy's hair gently. "I love you very much, and I always will, and your mother feels the same way. But you can't throw your food on the walls like that and you must obey your mum and I. And you can't expect us to reserve our love only for you, and you shouldn't want to reserve your love just for us. You should want to share your love with Charlie. If you do that, you will find that caring for someone is more fun than being cared for all the time. Growing up and becoming responsible for others is not a bad thing, you know. Being a big boy and a big brother is a lot of fun."

"I'm a big boy now, Dad. I'm gonna be the best big brother ever! Charlie gonna love me! But who wouldn't?" Bill perked up.

"Who wouldn't, indeed?" Mr. Weasley laughed. "Go up to bed now. Mum's waiting to read you a bedtime story."

"Someday I read Charlie a bedtime story," Bill told his father from the bottom of the staircase. "Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Bill."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: If I were J.K. Rowling, I would not be publishing on this website, even though it is wonderful, and everyone on it is lovely, to use Rita Skeeter's word. (For the whole long-winded disclaimer see Chapter One of this series, please, because I'm too lazy to type it out again.)

Reviews: Are more than welcome, but no flames, please. If you don't like it and have constructive criticism, fine, but if you are just going to rage at me, don't waste my time and your time. If you do like it and have constructive criticism, you're my favorite kind of reviewer.

Warning: There is spanking in this chapter (not much, like four little swats like young children get when they run out across the street in front of an eighteen wheeler, but I thought you should know). If this upsets you, you can, one, not read this whole story, two, not read this chapter, or, three, not read the parts where it actually happens. Please don't bother to review if all you're going to say is that spanking is wrong, because I never said it was right, and I warned you, and presented you three (3) solutions, one of which surely would work for you, and how you feel about spanking has little to do with the actual story.

Author's Note: Once more, Bill is born on November 29, 1970, and Charlie is born on December 12, 1972. Any mathematical errors about their ages in my story are most likely the fault of my hasty arithmetic, because math is not my best subject. If you spot an error, tell me, and I will fix it, fellow Potter freaks.

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"Don't Leave the Burrow Again" (Edited)

When Bill was four, he first understood fear. His mother had been busy playing paddy-cake with two-year-old Charlie, and a bored Bill had slipped out of the house without his mother noticing. He played in the garden for awhile, watching the gnomes wander about, and making a mental note to tell Mum that she needed to de-gnome again. However, soon that lost its novelty, and he was bored again. He needed to go on an adventure and you couldn't very well have an adventure inside your own garden, especially if your garden was as dull as his was. With this in mind, he began to wind his way down to the village on the country lane that passed by the Burrow.

At around this time, Mrs. Weasley realized that her elder son was not in the living room with her and Charlie. When she called upstairs for him, she got no answer, and she darted into the garden anxiously, Charlie on her hip. Frantic thoughts spiraled inside her head. Bill knew he was not supposed to leave the house unattended, why did he do so now? She searched the garden in a frenzy, hollering, "Bill! Where are you? Mum's looking for you! Oh, God, Bill, where are you?"

Despairing of discovering him in the yard, she charged down the lane. This caused Charlie to become a faint green, like a dying blade of grass, but she paid that no mind. Luckily for both her and her younger son, she found Bill within a few minutes. Upon catching sight of her older child still alive and in prime condition, Mrs. Weasley broke into tears of relief, and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. It was not, however, Bill's lucky day, for Molly's relief soon flared into a fiery wrath.

"What were you thinking, William Arthur Weasley? Were you thinking at all? How could you run off on me like that? How could you? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? Anything could've happened to you, anything! You could've been stolen, or killed by him or one of his Death Eaters!"

Bill didn't have the slightest idea who "he" or "his Death Eaters" were, but the fear, the wild fear, in his mother's eyes was quite enough to assure him that he did not want to know.

"Is that what you want, William, is it?" she pressed, shaking him.

"No, Mum, of course not," responded Bill quickly, eager not to fuel his mum's fire.

"Then never..." Bill was surprised to feel a resounding smack on the seat of his pants. "Never..." Another slap. Tears formed in Bill's eyes, and started to trickle down his cheeks. He had never been spanked before, and he didn't mean to scare or anger his mother like that. It just happened. "Run off--" another swat—" again." One final, loud smack landed on his behind, and the tears came faster.

Mrs. Weasley scooped him up, put him on the hip not occupied by Charlie, and carried them both back home. Once there, she set Bill down, and ordered him to get up to his bedroom immediately to wait until his father got home.

The afternoon in exile went by slowly for Bill, who was left alone with his own miserable thoughts, and they were not very good company. Would Dad be as mad as Mum was? Would Dad spank him again? The idea sent him into tears again, and crying tired him. Without realizing it, he drifted off to sleep.

He didn't awaken until the sun had gone down and his father entered the room after he had gotten home from work. Alarmed by the creaking of the door, Bill sat bolt upright. When he saw who the intruder was, he did not relax. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, then shut it lamely again.

Mr. Weasley sat on the bed beside his son. "Your mum told me that you left the Burrow today."

"Don't spank me, please, Dad," whimpered the child, sobbing again, to his own embarrassment. "I didn't mean to upset you and Mum. Really, I didn't."

"I don't have any intention of spanking you," Mr. Weasley informed the boy gently, gingerly wiping away his tears. Once Bill had quieted down, he went on more sternly, "But you must promise me that you won't leave the Burrow again like that."

"I promise," whispered Bill.

"Good, because it's dangerous out there. There are a lot of evil people, called Death Eaters, out there who won't hesitate to hurt or kill you, and I don't want that to happen."

"Me neither," Bill agreed fervently, eyes wide.

"Then stay here, where your mother and I can protect you, and where we have cast defensive spells."

"Yes, Dad."

A moment's silence, then Mr. Weasley commented, "Your mother loves you very much, Bill, just as I do. She only hit you today because she was so scared that you'd get hurt, and so grateful that you weren't dead or injured. She didn't want you to do anything like that again, since you might not always be so lucky, and she hoped to scare you enough so you wouldn't do it again. I'm not sure I agree, but there you have it. Anyway, I want you to understand at least some of the danger, so you won't take foolish risks like that again."

"I won't. I'm sorry, Dad. I know I'm not supposed to leave, but I did it anyway..." He trailed off, his face as scarlet as his hair, his head bent.

"It seems I've made my point," observed Mr. Weasley. He paused for a moment, sighed, then murmured, "I promise it won't always be like this."

"You do?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"No."

"There's your answer, then. Now, your mum will have dinner on the table in a few minutes. Shall we go down together?" He held his hand out to his son.

"Oh, yes." Bill accepted his father's hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If you believe that I am J.K. Rowling, then you are one of four things: delusional, gullible, just plain stupid, or all three. (Once again, for the full disclaimer, see Chapter One of this series.)

Reviews: Are awesome, especially when constructive criticism is included in the deal. Reviewers get free toy broomsticks while supplies last.

Warning: None that I can think of, unless you don't approve of some harmless bantering between two little boys, who use words like idiot, stupid, and prat.

Author's Note: Percy is mentioned by name for the first time (Percy supporters shout, "Yeah!"), although all he does is sleep and cry, bringing the total of Weasley birthdays you need to know about up to three. Anyway, Bill is born on Nov. 29, 1970, Charlie is born on Dec. 12, 1972, and Percy is born on August 22, 1976.

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Broomsticks (Edited)

"Gimme back my toy broomstick, prat," stout four-year-old Charlie wailed, as he chased his lanky six-year-old brother, Bill, up the winding stairs of the Burrow.

"It's not yours, idiot, it's mine. I've had it since before you were born," retorted Bill, as the pair of them clattered down the stairs again.

Their mother, Molly Weasley, poked her head out of baby Percy's bedroom as they passed. "Quiet, you two! I just settled Percy down to sleep!"

However, the boys continued their game of chase, paying her no mind. The noise woke up Percy, whose wails were added to the general cacophony flooding the house. Deciding to deal with her two troublesome elder lads later, Molly picked up the baby and started rocking him, crooning and singing to him as she did so.

Meanwhile the panted debate between Bill and Charlie raged on, downstairs now. "But you gave it to me," insisted Charlie.

"I didn't! Why would I give you anything, stupid?" Bill snapped back. Bam! He collided with someone as he darted past the door.

"Here now! What's this?" demanded Arthur Weasley, the banged into, flinging out a hand to stop his elder son. He sounded half-amused, half-stern. A few paces behind his brother, Charlie halted as well, and tattled:

"He stole my toy broomstick." He pointed a meaty finger at Bill in dire accusation.

"I told you a thousand times," Bill grumbled impatiently, "it's my toy broomstick."

"Can't you let your younger brother borrow it? You don't play with it anymore," Mr. Weasley reminded the older boy. "And you shouldn't be running in the house like that, either of you."

Charlie scowled. "But if we can't run outside, we have to run inside, Dad."

Bill, on the other hand, had a different objection to voice before his father could reply. "He was chasing me, so I had to run, Dad."

"Be that as it may. No running inside like that, either of you," their dad ruled. "Charlie, you can run outside when Mum or I are out with you. As for you, Bill, you know that he won't catch up to you—you have considerably longer legs." Charlie, always the more athletic, glowered at this. "And you're supposed to set your little brother a good example. Now, Charlie, if you want the broom, why don't you politely ask Bill to hand it over to you? I'm sure if you ask nicely, he'll lend it to you for awhile."

"May I borrow your toy broom, Bill?" Charlie fixed pleading brown eyes on his older brother, but Bill shook his head.

Their father frowned at the older boy standing before him. "Why won't you let him borrow your toy? You never play with it anymore, and you ought to be generous with those younger than you."

"Last time I lent it to him, he whacked me upside the head with it, which is why I took it from him, and that's why he was chasing me," mumbled Bill irritably.

"And you hit him back, didn't you?" Arthur demanded keenly. Bill hesitated for a moment, then nodded mutely. "I see, that would explain Charlie's bloody nose," he noted dryly, and Bill pivoted to truly look at his sibling for the first time. Sure enough, Charlie's nose was bleeding. A wave of guilt washed over him. He had not meant to do that to his little brother. He had only wanted to hurt the other boy enough to distract him while he took the broomstick, and to defend himself, that was all. Without his being aware of it, his cheeks became the hue of raspberries at their peak.

To Charlie, their father ordered tersely, "Don't hit your brother again, and he won't hit you. Now, go upstairs and your mum will tend to your nose." Charlie hurried upstairs, leaving Bill alone with his dad.

Mr. Weasley focused on Bill now. "As for you, your brother looks up to you, you know that, so please don't hit him, because it teaches him that violence is an acceptable means by which to solve problems. Speaking of which, you should have known better than to punch him, because that is not how we resolve problems, is it?"

"No, Dad."

Satisfied, Mr. Weasley waved a hand in dismissal, and Bill raced up the stairs to check on Charlie. He found him in the bathroom, where Mrs. Weasley had just finished patching him up. In the mirror, Charlie caught sight of his brother standing in the doorway, and whirled about to face him, his sheepish smile a reflection of the expression on Bill's face.

"Sorry," they both burst out at the same time. Now they really grinned at each other, and clamored downstairs to play a game of Exploding Snap, as close as they always were, the best of friends, as well as the best of brothers. When they were done playing cards, Bill took seat on the couch and watched Charlie zoom around on his old toy broomstick.

"You're really good, you know," Bill complimented Charlie as his little brother, exhausted after over an hour of soaring about, performing all kinds of stunts for his sibling's approval, plopped down beside him.

"Nah, I'm not," Charlie scoffed.

"You'll be a great Quidditch player—you'll be Captain of the Gryffindor team at Hogwarts, and then you'll play for England, and you can give me free tickets to come and watch!"

"I want to work with dragons, idiot, remember?"

"You only want to do that because you've only seen dragons in pictures. In real life, they're vicious, and would take off your head without a second thought, you prat. You wouldn't last a minute with a dragon."

"What would you know about it?" Charlie retorted. "You've never seen a real dragon, either."

"And I have no desire to," established Bill. "I'm going to live to a ripe old age and die in my sleep."

"Me too, so don't go acting so much better on me."

"No, you're going to be toasted by a dragon. Or have what little brains you have bashed out by a Bludger, if you let your dragon dream die."

At that moment, their playful bantering was interrupted by their mother, who arrived in the living room. "Bedtime, both of you! Brush your teeth and get in your pajamas, and I'll be up to read you a bedtime story in ten minutes."

Complaining under their breath at each other about the early hour at which they were being sent to sleep, Bill and Charlie ran upstairs to bed, ignoring their mum, who called after them, "Don't run! You'll wake Percy."


	4. Chapter 4

Warning: There is a discussion of the deaths of Fabian and Gideon, but, of course, nothing graphic

Warning: There is a discussion of the deaths of Fabian and Gideon, but, of course, nothing graphic. Also, there is a funeral scene, but, if you made it through Dumbledore's, you'll make it through this one with absurd ease, because I am not the best at writing funerals yet, because I, thank God, have not been to that many. Also, there is some mild cursing, like 'son-of-a-bitch' and 'bastard' in the beginning of the chapter, but nothing more. And there is a little spanking (once more, nothing more than a few swats on the bottom). For full details, see Warnings in Chapter Two, please, because I don't feel like typing it all out again.

Author's Note: Since Percy is so little, I intentionally gave him grammar that is not perfect. On the subject of Weasley ages, there are two new additions, Fred and George, both born on April 1 (you guessed it), 1978, and, in case you don't know by now, Bill is born on Nov. 29, 1970, Charlie on Dec. 12, 1972, and Percy on Aug. 12, 1976. Percy fans will be happy because he finally has a speaking role, but fans of Fred and George will have to wait for the next chapter for the twins to speak. Also, Dumbledore and McGonagall appear briefly for the first time

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Fabian and Gideon, Fred and George (Edited)

A scream pierced the crisp March air like a dagger. It came from Bill's parents' bedroom, and it sounded as though his mother was being tortured by a bunch of Death Eaters. What was going on? She couldn't be in labor now—it was much too soon. Seven-year-old Bill dashed across the hallway into his parents' room, and saw his mother sobbing uncontrollably, a crumpled letter in her hands. Tears were shining in Arthur's eyes as he patted his spouse on the back.

"Mum!" Bill exclaimed, horrified. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Charlie, five, and Percy, almost two, appeared silently, like ghosts, in the doorframe behind him.

But his mum just shook her head, incapable of speech. Mr. Weasley looked at his eldest child sadly. "Your uncles Fabian and Gideon are dead. You-Know-Who's Death Eaters killed them."

"Who You-Know-Who and who Death Eaters?" asked Percy blankly.

"You-Know-Who is a bastard," snarled Bill, "and his Death Eaters are a lot of cowardly sons-of-bitches." To be honest, he didn't really know what "bastard" or "sons-of-bitches" meant exactly, but he had overheard Uncle Fabian tell Uncle Gideon that You-Know-Who was a bastard, and his Death Eaters were cowardly sons-of-bitches, and Uncle Gideon had passionately agreed. But when Bill had called Percy those names, Percy had, as usual, run crying to Mum, and he had gotten his mouth washed out with soap and put in time-out.

Now, though, his mother did not scold him. She just choked out, "I guess those words are as apt as any to describe You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. They killed my brothers! Both of them! I suppose it ought to be a consolation that Gideon and Fabian fought bravely, like heroes, and it took five Death Eaters to defeat them, but it's not—it's not!"

Bill tried to picture his uncles Fabian and Gideon locked in mortal combat with five other wizards, but failed. Instead, he was flooded with images of them playing with him, Charlie, and serious Percy. They were both so vibrant, so alive, like two blazing fires, that he could not imagine them dead, and the life in them snuffed out like a candle after a strong gust of wind had blown by.

As sobs wracked his mother's frame, Bill acted on impulse, and put a hand on her shoulder, just as he would do if she were Charlie or Percy. "It's all right, Mum—it's all right. I love you."

"Me too," piped up Charlie, climbing onto his parents' bed, and hugging her from behind, clinging to her like a monkey.

Not to be outdone, Percy toddled over to her, and placed a hand on her knee, although who was supplying whom with support was debatable. "I love you most and best," he declared, and both his older brothers scowled at him.

Their mother smiled slightly, patted Percy's tiny hand, squeezed Bill's larger one, and kissed Charlie on the cheek. "I love you, too, boys, and, yes, Billy, it'll be all right." Yet, Bill knew that she was still deeply upset because she had not called him "Billy" in over five years. "Fabian and Gideon died fighting, and that's how they'd like it, I guess—they'd certainly rather die fighting than live for a long time groveling on their knees. They were never cowards, never. Well, off to bed now, you three. The double funeral is only two days away, and we've much to do in preparation."

"Bill, take Charlie and Percy into the house, and get them something to eat. Stay with them and look after them," Mrs. Weasley ordered, indicating with a jab of her finger Bill's maternal grandparents' house.

"How come I can't attend the funeral?" inquired Bill for the umpteenth time.

"Because children don't attend funerals," his mother replied wearily.

"Why not?" he persisted.

"They just don't." Mrs. Weasley's tone was short, for she had been angered easily lately.

"Why not?" Bill could feel his own patience draining away.

"It's not customary, and, besides, funerals are upsetting to children," explained his mum. From her clipped voice, Bill could tell that she was struggling to maintain her composure.

"It's more upsetting not to go, Mum," he grumbled.

"You're not going, and that's final, William!" she exploded, as Bill noted with foreboding his mother's employment of his full name, which was never an auspicious omen. He prayed that she would not rage at him in public, but the merciless God that had stolen Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon had no pity on him, either. "Go into the house and look after Charlie and Percy, and stay there! Do you hear me?"

"People in Egypt can hear you, so of course I can hear you," muttered Bill. Defiance filled him suddenly. He wanted to say farewell and find peace, like his mother and father. Why should he not be allowed to, just because he was a child? And how come he was old enough to care for his siblings, but not old enough to go to a funeral? In a louder voice, he stated, "But I won't stay there!"

To his surprise, his father spoke up then, his voice quiet, but unyielding, "You'll do as your mother says, son, or you'll regret it. Just because I've never spanked you before doesn't mean I won't."

Bill eyed his dad dubiously for a moment, because Molly tended to be the disciplinarian, and even she had only spanked him once, then, rolling his eyes skyward, snatched a hand of Charlie's and a hand of Percy's, and stalked off toward the house. When they arrived, he set them both up on a couch with plates full of food, and then mumbled, "I'll be back in a little while. I've got to visit the bathroom."

Percy was too young to spot anything suspicious in such a declaration, but Charlie clapped his elder brother on the shoulder, and whispered, "Good luck."

Bill nodded his thanks. He consoled his conscience with the fact that, technically, it was not a lie, because he did indeed visit the bathroom, for a few seconds, during which time he opened the window and jumped out onto the ground. Since everyone was attending the funeral at the other side of the house, his escape went unnoticed. Thinking that time was ticking quickly, he sprinted to the other side of the house, as well. Upon his arrival, he saw that wizards and witches were filing reverently past two coffins, and those who had already paid their respects were chatting melancholically in small knots, trying to assuage each other's grief. He navigated his way swiftly through the hordes of beings, and approached his uncles' coffins from the side without the queue.

As soon as he saw their ashen faces and their dead, glazed, expressionless eyes, Bill shuddered, and felt his composure shatter like a mirror hitting a stone floor. So they were really gone, he realized with a sharp pang as tears poured down his cheeks. Never again would they laugh with him. Never again would he see them. Never again would he talk to them.

Abruptly, he heard a voice holler his name, breaking his reverie. "Bill!"

It was his mother; he would know her voice anywhere. He looked in the direction from whence the call had originated and spotted her standing in the center of a group of witches and wizards, including her husband, who were all trying to comfort her, because she was crying her eyes out again. "I told you to stay in the house, so you wouldn't see this...and where are your brothers?"

Bill did not answer. Instead, he spun on his heel and fled, ignoring his father's shout, "Get back here, Bill!" When this had no effect, except to cause the lanky boy to run even faster, Mr. Weasley threatened, "If I have to come after you, you'll be sorry."

Still, Bill refused to come back, and Arthur swallowed his pride and walked briskly after him. Unfortunately for Bill, the lad's progress was hampered when a hand clutched his upper arm tightly.

Glaring up at his captor, a towering man with a long white beard that nearly touched the ground, and azure eyes that sparkled in a vexingly merry fashion, who had been talking to a witch almost as tall as he was, who was wearing an emerald green cloak, and had her hair drawn up in a severe bun, Bill snarled, "Let me go now, mister!" He pulled and tugged frantically...his father was not too far away now...

To Bill's utter consternation, the ancient wizard suddenly released him, rubbing his own arm. He was too puzzled by this to take advantage of the wonderful opportunity to take flight, and he lost his chance when the man demanded, "Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?"

"Yes, of course," lied Bill instantly. "I've got to defend myself. You grab me like that, and I've got to do something, haven't I?"

"Where'd you learn it? You don't go to Hogwarts." There was a trace of amusement in the wizard's manner now, and even the edges of the severe-looking witch's mouth were twitching upward a little.

"How would you know?" Bill scoffed, ready to take off again, but his father arrived at that moment, clenched his son's arm, and tugged the boy over to him.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, for helping me catch my errant son," he said, panting slightly, and causing Bill to stare up at the aged wizard in amazement. Was this really Dumbledore, the man who had defeated Grindelwald in that legendary duel that Bill and Charlie delighted in reenacting? Was this the man his mum and dad spoke so highly of as the hero, as the only one You-Know-Who feared? No way, impossible! "Normally, he is quite pleasant and obedient, if you'll believe it, but today he's in a very naughty mood, a very naughty one, indeed."

"It was nothing, or, rather, it would have been nothing if your son had not produced a Stinging Hex, a pretty good one, at that." Dumbledore bowed politely to Mr. Weasley, and Bill resisted the temptation to point out that if Dumbledore had not snatched his arm in the first place, he would not have gotten stung by the Stinging Hex.

"Well, Bill, like every young wizard, will have bursts of accidental magic in moments of emotional distress...I apologize, though." Arthur Weasley shook his son gently when he deliberately ignored the prompt. "And what do you say, son?"

"I'm not sorry."

"William, that's not the answer I'm looking for and you know it. Now, I suggest you provide the correct response before you embarrass yourself and me further, and you don't want to upset me anymore, young man." Unlike his wife, Mr. Weasley did not yell, although he came close to it, which saved Bill from that indignity at least.

For a moment, there was silence, then Bill decided that he didn't want to make his dad scream at him in public, and mumbled resentfully, not sounding at all apologetic, to Dumbledore, "Sorry, sir."

Dumbledore glossed over the tone in which the apology had been made. "It's quite all right, quite understandable, given that this is a funeral, and I, an unknown wizard, did grab you. And, I must say, I look forward to seeing you at Hogwarts with a Stinging Hex like that."

"Thanks," Bill mumbled grudgingly, still angry at the headmaster of Hogwarts for grabbing him in the first place.

His dad spoke up once more. "Thank you, Dumbledore, but I'm afraid I'd like a word alone with my son right now. I'll see you later, I hope. It was nice seeing you..." He looked at the stern witch in emerald green... "and you, Professor McGonagall."

The hard-faced witch, Professor McGonagall, nodded in response as Mr. Weasley guided his oldest child back to the house and into an upstairs bedroom. As soon as the door shut behind them, the father crossed his arms over his chest. "Explain how you came to be out in the yard when your mother and I expressly commanded you to remain in the house, looking after your younger brothers, now, please."

"I did look after them, Dad," the lad stated defensively. "I got them plates of food, and sat them down on a nice couch, and told them I was going to the bathroom."

"Where you didn't go," cut in Mr. Weasley coolly.

"I did go there."

"Don't lie to me, son! It's cowardly."

"I wasn't lying," insisted Bill. He hurried to elaborate when he saw his father's frown."I went into the bathroom, then climbed out the window..."

"Purposefully disobeying your mother and I," Arthur pointed out, "and fully aware of the consequences of your defiance."

"Yes, and I did the right thing, no matter what you say, Dad, and I'm not sorry I did it, not sorry at all."

Mr. Weasley sighed heavily and plopped down on the bed. "Don't make me spank you, Bill. Admit you were wrong, and apologize to your mum and I, and you'll receive a time-out when we get home, and that's it...Refuse to apologize as you should, and I'll spank you."

For an instant, Bill bit his lip, infuriated at being in this situation at all, and then snapped, "I won't lie and say I'm sorry when I'm not. That's dumb and I don't see why you'd want me to after what you just said about lying."

"So you're not sorry?" His father's eyebrows rose.

"No, it's you who should be sorry, not me," Bill retorted heatedly.

For a long moment, Mr. Weasley just stared at his son, because while Bill would occasionally challenge his parents, more often his mum, he did not shout at them like this—he did not usually behave like this, and Arthur had no intention of letting the boy think he could get away with it. In one swift movement, he unbuttoned and lowered his son's trousers, then pushed the screaming, protesting, boy over his knee, informing the lad, "You brought this upon yourself, you know. You are not to speak to your mother or me in that manner, William Arthur Weasley."

With a resounding crack, he landed his hand on Bill's upturned, vulnerable bottom. "You upset your mum terribly—" another smack—"with your disobedience—" a third one hit—"and she's quite distressed at the moment, without you adding to it, young man—" another blow.

"And what about me?" demanded Bill, squirming. His antics ceased when the man placed his left hand on his back, stilling him.

"That's the problem, William—" a fifth one landed, and Bill's eyes were stinging from the pain of not giving in to tears—"you're only thinking of yourself— " a sixth smack—"you're being selfish. You're not thinking of your mother—"

"She's the one who's being selfish," countered Bill defiantly. His tone became pleading. "Daddy, I wanted to say good-bye, too."

Mr. Weasley frowned because Bill only called him "Daddy" now when he was in extreme emotional distress. "I know you wished to see your uncles one last time, but your mum was right—" he gave the boy a final spank, then pulled up his pants—"you're too young."

He pushed his son of his knee and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. "It upset you very much, that is quite apparent, and that is why you lashed out at Professor Dumbledore and I, isn't it?"

"I don't know. I guess, probably," whispered Bill, drying his eyes with his hand.

"It upset your mother even more, seeing you so pained, Bill."

"Sorry, Dad, I didn't realize..." He broke off, realizing how pathetic he sounded, but he had not set out to hurt Mum, not really. "Maybe I was selfish, but I wanted to say—say good-bye." He affixed pleading, tear-filled brown eyes on his father as he pulled away from the hug, willing the man to understand.

"And you did," Mr. Weasley reminded him softly.

"You spanked me for it."

"I would not have done so if you had endeavored to act apologetic, or at least respectful. It was your attitude more than anything that earned you that spanking, son." He guided Bill out of the room. "Let's go and find your mother so you can apologize to her, and I'll tell her you've been punished enough."

Late in the night of March 31st, Molly went into labor, and her husband rushed her to St. Mungo's, leaving their children in the care of Mrs. Diggory. It was a difficult labor, probably due to the fact that it was a multiple birth, and the twins weren't born until eleven in the morning. That meant that they were born on April 1st, April Fools Day. Bill hoped that they would not be fools, because he could not abide having a pair of idiot siblings on top of one, Percy, who was a tattle-tale. Charlie was, in Bill's opinion, the only decent brother, at least when he wasn't babbling on about dangerous, lethal magical creatures in an affectionate manner that suggested they were as lovely and harmless as butterflies.

Due to the magic of the Healers at St. Mungo's, Mrs. Weasley returned home that evening, and Mrs. Diggory left to cook dinner for her husband and her own young son, Cedric. As soon as their parents came home, Bill, Charlie, and Percy ran to greet them. Mrs. Weasley hugged her three older sons, smiling happily.

"What did you name them, Mum?" Charlie burst out.

"Fred and George," responded Mrs. Weasley, sitting down on the sofa.

"And me thought I had an odd name," Percy frowned.

"You do," Charlie reassured him, grinning, as Bill smirked as well.

"What the 'n' stand for?" continued Percy, shooting daggers at his elder siblings, which only caused the two older boys to laugh.

"The 'n'?" echoed their mother, clearly bewildered.

"Yes, Mum, the 'n.' You said the baby's name was Fred N. George. So what the 'n' stand for? Norbert? Norton?" Percy persisted, as Charlie and Bill chuckled harder than ever.

"There are two babies, ignoramus. They're twins. One is named Fred and the other is named George," Bill informed him, once he had caught his breath.

"Don't call Percy an ignoramus, Bill," Molly scolded.

"But, Mum, he is one."

"He is not!"

Fortunately, at that moment, Mr. Weasley arrived in the living room, carrying a sleeping baby boy wrapped up in a blue blanket in each arm, and Mrs. Weasley beamed, "There they are, boys, your new baby brothers, Fred and George."

The three boys all raced over to examine the twins. As Bill had expected, they were pink, and small, and rather unexciting. However, Percy looked faintly disappointed, and Charlie muttered, "I'll like them better awake, I think."

"You must've forgotten how much Percy screamed and pooped when he was awake, then," diagnosed Bill seriously. When his mother scowled at him, he asked, trying to distract her, "How are we going to tell them apart? They seem identical to me."

"I was just wondering that myself, you know," Mr. Weasley observed.

"Arthur, I told you to put the yellow wristband we got at the hospital on Fred, so we could tell them apart before I put on the sweaters I knitted with 'F' and 'G' on them..."

"You made them sweaters with 'F' and 'G' knitted on them?" Bill demanded in disbelief.

"Yes, I made you all sweaters before you were born, you know that, dear."

"Not with the first letter of our name sewn on them. Mum, you can't expect them to wear that forever...that'd be humiliating."

"Don't be silly, dear," Mrs. Weasley dismissed this contention. "They won't have to wear them forever, just until we figure out a way to tell them apart. One will have a freckle on the nose and the other won't, or something."

"So they could be wearing those sweaters for years? How embarrassing for them. Mum, people will think that they don't know their own names!"

"And what do you suggest, young man?" Mrs. Weasley scowled at her oldest child.

Bill shrugged. He did not have a better idea, but that did not mean that he thought the sweater suggestion was the best approach to the dilemma of telling the twins apart. Before he could express as much, Mr. Weasley spoke up. "Molly, dear, I think I forgot to put the yellow wristband on Fred."

Mrs. Weasley turned her glare from Bill to her husband. "What do you mean, you think you forgot to put the yellow wristband on Fred? Either you put it on or you didn't. Which one is it?"

"The latter," Mr. Weasley admitted guiltily.

"Great, that's just wonderful, Arthur! So we could now end up calling Fred 'George' for the rest of his life and George 'Fred'!" she exploded, bending over and grabbing her sewing basket furiously.

"That's confusing," Charlie remarked cheerily, scratching his head, as his mother rummaged through the basket.

"Here we are!" she exclaimed, pulling out two sweaters that were a gender-neutral brown that had 'F' and 'G' embroidered on the chests.

"If we can't tell Fred and George apart because Dad forgot the yellow wristband, that means that not only will they have to endure the indignity of walking around in sweaters that practically have their names written on them, they might also have to walk about in sweaters that have the wrong name written on them, although they probably won't know that they've got the wrong name because they'll think it's the right one, but still that's horrible, a terrible case of mistaken identity," Bill noted as his mum put the sweaters on the newborns.

"Since you're so concerned about their well-being, young man, you can have diaper duty for the first two weeks," Molly snapped.

"Mum," Bill protested weakly, crossing his arms. "You can't be serious...that's not fair!"

"It's perfectly fair, and I'm absolutely serious," answered Mrs. Weasley firmly, sitting down on the couch again.

Bill turned imploring eyes on his father. "Dad!"

"You'll do as your mum says." A slight smile tugged on Mr. Weasley's lips.

Charlie interrupted, "Why Fred and George?"

"What, dear?" asked Mrs. Weasley somewhat distractedly.

"Why'd you name them Fred and George?" Charlie repeated.

Tears suddenly appeared in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, and her husband intervened quickly, "We named them after your Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian. Fabian and Gideon, Fred and George, you see."

Charlie nodded, looking upset because he had distressed his mother again.

A distraction, that's what they needed, Bill decided. "Good thing you didn't decide to name them Gideon and George, then, or Fabian and Fred, because then how would we tell them apart? Would they have to wear sweaters with 'Gi' and 'Ge' on them? Or 'Fa' and 'Fr'?"

Molly actually started sobbing at this, and snarled, "Four weeks."

As Bill scowled, a foul odor filled the room, and Mr. Weasley held the twins out to his eldest child. Grumbling, Bill took the babies from his dad, and carried them upstairs to the nursery.

When he started changing the twin whose sweater announced that his name was George, he complained, "Ugh, you stink worse than Charlie and Percy put together did, and I thought that was impossible, because, man, did Perce stink! You're definitely more trouble than you're worth. Trouble twins sent by the devil."

He didn't know at the time how right he was.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: It's not mine, obviously, except for the pathetic little plot

Disclaimer: It's not mine, obviously, except for the pathetic little plot. The rest of it belongs to J.K. Rowling, and, if you have not done so, you should read her books not my stupid little story.

Reviews: Always welcome.

Author's note: The Weasley children are born on the following days: Ginny, August 11, 1981; Ron, March 1, 1980; Fred and George, April 1, 1978; Percy, August 22, 1976; Charlie, December 12, 1972; and Bill, November 29, 1970. The time period may not be exactly right on this, but I thought it was too cute an opportunity to miss, so I altered the time frame a little.

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Halloween: A Bittersweet Night (Edited)

Eight Weasleys sat around the kitchen table, waiting for Mr. Weasley to return home from work― he had to work overtime again, most likely―so they could commence their Halloween party. All the children, excluding Ronnie and Ginny, who were snoozing, Ronnie in his high chair, and Ginny in her baby basket near her mother's chair, were waiting impatiently for their father to come back home again, so they could eat dinner, and have dessert and candy, and play games like Pin the Tail on the Centaur.

Finally, after what seemed like a decade, Arthur Weasley arrived, looking flushed, tired, forlorn, and, yet, elated somehow. Having never seen his dad in such a state, Bill frowned, and opened his mouth to inquire as to what was wrong, when his mother spoke first, demanding, "Arthur, what's the news? Why do you look like that?"

"Do you want the good news or the bad first, Molly?" asked Mr. Weasley, pouring himself a goblet of pumpkin juice, and passing the pitcher of juice around the table, as his wife dished out the plates of turkey and stuffing covered amply with gravy.

"The bad," Mrs. Weasley ruled, pursing her lips, and visibly bracing herself, as Bill was, to hear about more people dead, or tortured, or twisted into committing atrocities by You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters.

"Lily and James Potter are― are dead," her husband replied, his quiet voice barely above a whisper. "You-Know-Who did it himself, Dumbledore says."

"But that means their Secret-Keeper betrayed them," muttered Mrs. Weasley, shocked, a hand over her heart. She shook her head, tears in her eyes, as her husband nodded grimly. "Oh, those poor dears, they were so young, so very young, only twenty-one…and so very brave and idealistic."

"What's a Secret-Keeper, Mum?" Bill pressed, frowning at the unfamiliar term.

"Nothing you should trouble yourself with, my dear," she answered swiftly, recovering herself, and resuming her usual overprotective air around her brood of children.

"You never tell me anything." Bill's scowl deepened. "You never think I'm old enough to understand anything, but I am, Mum, I am."

"When you're old enough to understand, you won't need to ask what a Secret-Keeper is," she informed him, her tone short.

"Dad, tell me what a Secret-Keeper is." Bill faced his father this time, knowing his mother was a dead end.

Smiling, Mr. Weasley only said, "Let's not mar a day of celebration with an argument, Bill."

About to point out that he had not been the one to start the spat, if one even called it that, which he did not, Bill realized something odd his father had said. "A day of celebration, Dad? It's just Halloween, and I could just as easily accuse you of marring my day of celebration by being late for reasons I know but obviously am too young to understand. Unless, of course, the celebration you speak of is not born in the fact that it is Halloween." Any offense the words would otherwise have carried was overweighed by the charming smile he bestowed upon his dad as he cut a particularly difficult slab of turkey. Or so he thought.

Indeed, his father did not seem miffed, but his mother appeared even more indignant than ever. "See, Arthur, he's been getting really out of hand lately. He's always sassing me and now he's doing it to you, too," she complained.

At this, Bill wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes, because he did not think he was a disrespectful child on a whole. Sure, he was not an angel like Percy, but he also was not demon spawn like the terrible twins Fred and George. In fact, he was quite convinced that his mum should be eternally grateful that he was normally willing to care for his younger siblings without complaint. Aloud, he responded only, "Mum, I'm not being rude, I'm just pointing out that he said 'a day of celebration' and he hasn't told us the good news yet. You know, the reason why the celebration is happening."

"I still don't like your tone, but you're right," Mrs. Weasley conceded, returning her gaze to her spouse. "What's the good news, Arthur?"

"Are you prepared to hear it?"

Molly Weasley glowered at him. "Why in the world do I have to brace myself more for the positive news than the negative news?"

"You'll know when I tell you that You-Know-Who is gone at last!" her husband declared.

For a minute, there was utter silence in the kitchen. Bill was certain that his ears had suddenly been clogged, because he was absolutely sure that his father could not have just said that You-Know-Who had finally been vanquished. On his left, Charlie's fork dropped out of his suddenly limp hand, and Percy's mouth fell open in a style that Percy himself would usually describe as 'uncouth.' Even Fred and George were dumbstruck for once. Only Ginny and Ronnie, blissfully asleep in their dreamlands, were unaffected.

"Arthur Weasley, you did not just say You-Know-Who is gone at last!" Mrs. Weasley broke the quiet that had descended upon them all after a few seconds.

"That I did, Molly dear. Er, well, I should say that Harry Potter--"

"The son of Lily and James Potter?" Bill demanded, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Yes." His father nodded. "He defeated You-Know-Who, although Dumbledore says he will come back. But I can't imagine that happening anytime soon, and I'd say, that even though his Death Eaters are still out there, and we must therefore exercise caution, we're safer and freer than we ever were with You-Know-Who around, and it'll be like that for awhile."

Finally comprehending the fact that the evil dark wizard that had terrorized his childhood was vanquished at last, even if only temporarily, Bill screamed with delight, releasing a tension buried so deep inside him that he had not even realized it was there until he could release it after all these years. As if from a great distance, he could hear Charlie and Percy yelling in joy, and Fred and George pounding their cutlery on their platters in exaltation. Their mother was too busy dancing gleefully around the kitchen with their father to bother to scold them for their antics.

While he exchanged what must have been a million high-fives and low-fives with Charlie, Bill could hear his father's voice in his head, murmuring words he thought he had forgotten long ago, "I promise it won't always be like this." He'd been right. It had not always been like that. They were all free at last.

The din, which was enough to waken the dead all over England, Scotland, and Wales, awakened both Ronnie and Ginny, and the pair of them began to wail, but in so cheerful an atmosphere even their cries did not sound entirely miserable like they typically did. Coming out of her bubble of pleasure, Molly wended her way over to Ginny and scooped her up, making comforting noises, as Arthur did the same with Ronnie.

Once Ginny and Ronnie had calmed down, Mrs. Weasley commented, "I'd forgotten that Lily and James had a son about Ronnie's age, you know, how silly of me. Did you hear what happened to him, Arthur? Tell me he didn't die like his parents."

"Oh no, he lived," Mr. Weasley reassured her, placing Ronnie back in his high chair. "He survived You-Know-Who's attack, and managed to defeat him somehow, as I said. Dumbledore's going to deliver him to his Muggle aunt and uncle. How fortunate for him, growing up with Muggles! I reckon he'll learn all about rubber ducks and how airplanes stay up!"

The rest of the family were too used to such exclamations from Mr. Weasley to make any snide comments, and just took it in stride, continuing the conversation as they always would.

"Speaking of luck," Mrs. Weasley observed, "this is an excellent time for You-Know-Who to be vanquished. I was worried about Bill going off to school next year on his own in a dangerous world."

"Mum, I wouldn't have been alone, because there are like a thousand students at Hogwarts and like twenty teachers there, and surely you don't consider some of them, like Professor Dumbledore, for instance, to be nobodies," Bill groaned.

Mrs. Weasley flared up at once like a blade of dry grass when a blazing match is put to it. "Just because it is Halloween, young man, and just because we're celebrating You-Know-Who's downfall, that doesn't mean that you can behave like that. Keep that up, and you can spend the rest of the night in your room!"

"Sorry, Mum," he apologized earnestly, not wanting to miss her delicious pumpkin pie, or the Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans, or the Chocolate Cauldron Cakes, for that matter. Catching sight of the pumpkin pie on the counter, he picked up a knife and spatula, cut a slice, plopped it gingerly on a plate, stuck a fork in it, and handed it to her, grinning sweetly. "Please accept this as a token of my sincere apology."

Shaking her head, Mrs. Weasley relieved him of the pie. "You're incorrigible, but at least you're back to normal once more."

Bill smirked as he returned to the pie, and cut out another slice, this one for himself. "It's delicious!" he pronounced, as he bit into it.

"Thank you, dear," smiled Mrs. Weasley.

"Cut me a slice!" Charlie hollered at his elder brother.

"No way," replied Bill, "it's every man for himself." He cut yet another piece of pie.

"You should wait until everyone has had a slice before you have seconds," Percy educated him pompously.

"Who said this piece was for me, Perce?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow, as he dumped the slice onto a dish. "I'm not done with my first slice, yet, genius, so what would I want more for? Besides, I said it was every man for himself, but I didn't mention the pretty little ladies."

After grabbing a baby spoon, he took the plate over to where Ginny was sitting, cooing in her baby basket. "Hey, Ginny girl, how are you?"

Ginny made no response, just watched him with her unblinking brown eyes, but Bill, after watching all his little brothers grow from slobbering babies into toddlers, had not expected one.

"Want some cake, tigress?" he continued. He took a bite of his own, smiled, and rubbed his stomach in contentment. "It's yummy in my tummy. You'll like it, too." With that, he offered Ginny a spoonful of her own pie.

She crooned and clapped her hands in ecstasy when she tasted it. Her eldest brother smiled and offered her another bite, before turning to the kitchen at large, and declaring, "She likes it. She's a Weasley, without a doubt."


	6. Chapter 6

A Harmless Fairy Tale (Edited)

A Harmless Fairy Tale (Edited)

"Bill?"

Bill turned from the wizard chess game he was playing with Charlie to look at eleven-month old Ginny who had toddled over to him, and was now clutching his knee for support. "Yes, lioness, what is it?"

"Wanna learn to count!"

Charlie smiled in slight mockery at this innocent demand, but eleven-year-old Bill grabbed her little hand, which was sticky with juice, and held it up before her, then he gently knocked down all her fingers. "You have zero fingers up now, Ginny girl."

"Zro," echoed Ginny obediently, and Bill, managing not to grin at the mispronunciation, nudged Charlie hard in the ribs when he chortled at her corruption of the English language.

"Very good," he praised her, and was rewarded with her pretty, dazzling smile. He separated one finger from the rest and held it up. "Now you have one finger up now, one."

"Un," repeated Ginny seriously, nodding her head, so that her auburn hair rose up and down like a wave.

"Exactly, like I'm your number one brother."

"You really need to do something about that ego of yours," Charlie cut in, glaring at Bill. "Who said you're her best brother?"

Bill rolled his eyes to some unseen being residing in the heavens. "I meant I'm number one, because I was born first. Pay your brain bill, Char." Resuming his lesson with Ginny, he pushed another one of her sticky fingers up, "You've two fingers up, now, two. Like Charlie here's brother number two."

"Wo." Ginny butchered yet another number, and it was Charlie's turn to raise his eyes skyward. "Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

"Great, that's exactly right," encouraged Bill, ignoring his younger brother's amusement, and resisting the temptation of reminding the other boy that he had once learned to count as well and had made a similar botch of it. Instead, he pulled Ginny's middle finger up. "This is your third finger. That means you have three fingers up, like Percy is brother number three."

"Tee. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

Smiling, Bill nodded his approval, and held up her fourth finger on her right hand. "That's finger number four, Ginny, four, like Fred is number four."

"Foo, Fred. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

"Five." Bill added another finger, so that Ginny's entire right hand was held aloft now. "Five, like George is brother number five."

"Ive, George. Foo, Fred. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

"Six." He ticked off a finger on her left hand. "Six, like Ronnie is brother number six."

"Ix, Ronnie. Ive, George. Foo, Fred. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

Charlie interrupted the mathematical instruction with a listless sigh. "How long is this going to last exactly?"

"Until I get to ten," replied Bill tersely, "then we'll finish our chess game, Char. Tigress, if I add one more finger--" he tugged up the second finger on Ginny's left hand-- "then you have seven fingers up in the sky! And who is number seven?"

"Me," chanted Ginny exuberantly.

"Right in one. I bet you didn't know seven was the most powerfully magical number, did you?"

"No." Ginny shook her head.

"Well, it is," her eldest brother educated her. "That's you, lucky seven. So, if I put up another finger--" he did so--"we have eight fingers up. Eight, like if you, all your six pesky, unlucky brothers, and Mummy were in the kitchen."

"Eght, Mummy. Sven, me. Ix, Ronnie." Struggling to remember it all, the young girl frowned for a moment, then burst on triumphantly, "Ive, George. Foo, Fred. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill."

"Excellent," applauded Bill, putting up another finger, the ninth, on her left hand. "Here's finger number nine, like if Daddy, and Mummy, and Ginny, and all Ginny's brothers were in the kitchen!"

"Neen, Daddy. Eght, Mummy. Sven, me. Ix, Ronnie. Ive, George. Foo, Fred. Tee, Percy. Wo, Charlie. Un, Bill." When she finished reeling this off, she frowned thoughtfully at her oldest sibling, "Who the last finger?"

"The last finger is finger ten, Ginny. And guess who it is?" He was stalling for time.

"Who?" demanded Ginny breathlessly.

On pure impulse, Bill stated, "It's Harry Potter, tigress, because someday he's going to meet you and fall in love with you. Then he'll marry you, and you'll live happily ever after."

"Weally?" She stared at him with such awe that he did not have the heart to inform her that he had made it up, that it was a fantasy, like any other fairy tale. An older brother had to protect his little sister; it was in the job description.

"Of course, who wouldn't love you?"

Ginny clapped her hands, wrapped her arms around him for a moment, then wobbled into the kitchen to tell her mother all about her counting lesson with Bill as her two oldest siblings resumed their chess match. A few minutes later, Molly Weasley emerged from the kitchen, hands resting firmly on her hips.

"Bill!" she snapped. "Did you tell your little sister that Harry Potter was going to fall in love with her and marry her and that they would live happily ever after?"

"Yes," admitted Bill, holding his hands up in surrender. "But you can't blame me for wanting the best man for my little sister, can you, Mum?"

"Well, I suppose not, but honestly, you could refrain from filling her head with nonsense like that, which will no doubt lead her to heartache, because she'll never meet Harry Potter, and, even if she does, he won't fall in love with her, he certainly won't marry her, and they definitely won't live happily ever after, Bill!"

"Don't worry, Mum," Bill soothed, trying to calm her down, as Charlie sniggered and he kicked him lightly in the shins for his lack of support. "She'll forget about it. I mean, she'll go to school, she'll meet someone she likes, and she'll develop a crush on him, and she'll forget about the Harry Potter fantasy devised by stupid old Bill. Then one day some guy that she thinks is cool will ask her out, she'll say yes, they'll fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after, the end."

"You'd better be right, that's all I can say," Mrs. Weasley educated him, but she seemed mollified as she headed back into the kitchen.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize from Harry Potter is not mine.

Reviews: Are wonderful if you have the time.

Author's Notes: Fred, George, and Ginny don't have the best grammar because they are so young, so once again errors in their dialogue are intentional. Now all seven Weasley children will appear, so I'll tell you all their birthdays from youngest to oldest: Ginny, August 11, 1981; Ron, March 1, 1980; Fred and George, April 1, 1978; Percy, August 22, 1976; Charlie, December 12, 1972; and Bill, November 29, 1970.

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The Letter (Edited)

"Bill, Bill!" Eleven-year-old Bill Weasley was awakened in early July by his nine-year-old brother Charlie's voice. For the nine millionth time, Bill reflected on how unfortunate he was to be sharing a bedroom with his excitable younger brother. Then again, it was better than rooming with pompous, much too serious Percy and the trouble twins, or the babies, Ronnie and Ginny. "Up and at 'em, lazy bones!"

The fact that Charlie was the best roommate he could hope to attain in this crowded house, and the sibling he was closest to did not mean that he was going to be civil at this insanely early hour at which Charlie had the audacity to wake him.

"Go away, monster!" he snapped. "I don't want to play Quidditch now. Actually, I want nothing more than to go back to sleep." He rolled over, pulling a sheet over his head to block out the rising sun. "Damn it, Charlie, it's not even seven yet, I'll bet."

"I don't want to play Quidditch, imbecile. Today it comes for you, I know it!" Charlie chanted exuberantly.

"What comes for me?" demanded Bill, shoving off his blanket. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep if his brother was going to be so persistent.

"Your Hogwarts letter, prat! Merlin, don't tell me you forgot!"

"Oh, you're right for once—remind me to declare it a national holiday! I did forget, actually, to be honest." Bill leapt out of his bed as well, and together they raced down the stairs to the kitchen, where they could hear their mother clanging pots and pans, as she prepared breakfast for her seven children.

As the two excited boys clattered into the kitchen, Molly Weasley, balancing Ginny and Ronnie on her hips, smiled and whirled around to face them. "You're up early, both of you."

"That's why," Charlie explained, pointing toward the window, on which an owl perched on the ledge. With a whoop, his older brother darted across the room, opened the window, and took the letter the owl proffered. As Bill read the address, and found, as he had supposed, that it was written to him, the owl soared away. Eagerly, he tore open the envelope, and read the note inside:

"_Dear Mr. Weasley,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31."_

Charlie, bouncing on the balls of his feet, was incapable of waiting any longer. "What's it say?"

"I'm going to Hogwarts." Bill laughed, thrusting the parchment at his sibling, who took it, and read it. "Mum, here's the list of school stuff," he added, fishing it out of the envelope and putting it on the counter.

"Aren't you going to even look at what you need?" she asked, amused.

"It's too early in the summer to think about school." Bill shook his head.

"All right, dear, then put it in my pile, please," she told him, and he moved it over to the tottering pile on the other end of the counter, and placed it on top. For a minute, it seemed as though the precarious mountain would tumble, but it steadied in the end.

At that moment, four-year-old Fred and George dashed into the room with identical malignant smirks on their guilty faces, tossing a copy of Percy's favorite book between them. Percy, six, thundered down the stairs on their heels, shouting at them to hand them his book back immediately. To Bill and Charlie's amusement, his demands and threats were having no impact on the twins, who were now standing on the table, as they threw the book back and forth, just out of Percy's reach, because he refused to abuse furniture by climbing upon it in such a manner.

"Fred—George, get off the table now, and give your brother his book back!" snapped Mrs. Weasley, placing Ginny in her baby basket, and Ronnie in his high chair, before picking up Fred, and placing him firmly on the ground. She did the same thing with George, snatching the book from him, and handing it to its rightful owner, Percy. "You two are the limit, the limit, I tell you... None of your brothers behaved like this all the time. It's like having twin monkeys, instead of twin boys, for heaven's sake!"

"What going on down here before we come down?" George interrupted her tirade. "It unusually loud down here for this early hour of the morning."

"Yeah, it almost like we were down here or something," continued Fred in their typical method of completing each other's thoughts flawlessly.

"And 'be-quiet-I'm-sleeping'-Bill is down here, too," George finished, and Bill clapped him lightly on the head.

"Bill's going to Hogwarts!" shouted Charlie, jumping up and down.

"Well, 'course he is," scoffed Fred. "Him and every other eleven-year-old wizard in England."

"But it a relief to hear he got in," added his twin.

"Yep, be real embarrassing if we had a Squid in the family," from Fred.

"It's a Squib, not a Squid, fool," Bill informed him, hitting him over the head, as well. Then he grabbed milk from the fridge and a dish from the cabinet, sat down at the kitchen table, and poured himself a bowl of cereal. Charlie and Percy got themselves bowls and poured themselves some cereal, also.

Percy made his opinion about Bill's going to Hogwarts known for the first time. "Hogwarts will be interesting. I read all kinds of fascinating things about it, and you'll learn all about magic there, and..."

Unable to stand another one of Percy's rants, which were always long-winded and boring, referencing almost every book Percy had ever read, Bill broke in, "I imagine I will, Perce, after all that's the point of school, isn't it?"

Percy looked disappointed, because Bill was the only Weasely child, excepting himself, of course, that showed any interest in academic pursuits, and read of his own volition.

Then, the letter was forgotten and it was another day like any other in the Weasley household.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter One

Author's Note: Since J.K. Rowling said students don't start at Hogwarts until they are eleven, Bill wouldn't start school until 1982.

On the subject of the names of Bill's year-mates, I looked up the most popular baby names in America given in 1970-1971 according to the U.S. records. I wasn't sure where to search to find that same information for British people, but from what I've read trends in naming in Britain and America are fairly similar, so I hope it won't make much of a difference. If anyone is British and/or knows anything about baby names given in the 1970's there, feel free to tell me, and I'll alter names as necessary. Anyway, I hope the names don't interfere with the story, because I tried to find appropriate time period names.

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Off to Hogwarts (Edited)

"I don't want you to go," Charlie said abruptly on the night of August 31st, 1982. He and his older brother were lying in their beds, staring up at the ceiling, unable to drift off to sleep.

"What?" Bill broke free of his reverie, which included all those before school horrors, such as saying the wrong thing, being laughed at, and being the dumbest one in the year.

"I don't want you to go," repeated Charlie in a softer voice this time.

"I have to go," sighed Bill, "whether I want to or not."

"You don't want to go?"

"I do—and I don't. I'm, well, I'm nervous." He wanted to say that he was scared, but he couldn't admit that to his little brother, because Charlie needed him to be strong for them both right now. "What if nobody likes me?"

"I like you."

"Don't be thick, you know perfectly well that I meant what if nobody at school likes me?"

"Nonsense. What's not to love? You're funny and smart. Just don't be too smart, people won't like that, because they'll think you're an obnoxious, arrogant know-it-all."

Bill smiled slightly. "Thanks, Charlie. I needed that bit of advice."

Unsure whether his sibling was being sarcastic, Charlie ignored that. "Now me, I'm the one that has to worry. What if my favorite brother forgets me when he gets all his cool new friends?"

"How could I forget someone as obnoxious as you, Char?"

"I don't know, but what if you do?" Charlie persisted.

"I won't, I'll write to you every week."

"Promise?" pressed Charlie.

"I promise. Happy?"

"I guess, but I'm going to miss you."

"Me too," Bill replied quietly. "I'll see you during the holidays, and in two years, you'll join me."

"Yeah, when you're a third year, I'll be a first year, and that's not a long while off," grumbled Charlie.

"It's not if you're Dumbledore," Bill countered.

"But I'm not a hundred some odd years old, in case you've forgotten," pointed out Charlie.

"No, you're a short and pudgy nine-year-old."

"Thanks for the compliment. Good night, Bill."

"Good night, Char."

The next morning, the whole family went to King's Cross to see Bill off, and in no time at all, they were all crowded together on the bustling Platform 9 ¾. As she stared at her eldest child as though he were an old acquaintance she recognized the face of but could not place the name, Molly Weasley burst into tears.

"Oh, I can't believe it...I just can't believe it...little Billy's going to Hogwarts..." Flushing, Bill noticed out of the corner of his eye Fred and George sniggering. His mother, determined to embarrass him further, plowed on wetly, "Where did the time go? Just yesterday he was Ginny's age, and now he's going off to school."

"Mum, don't, please...you're embarrassing me," Bill mumbled as she lurched forward unsteadily, and hugged him fiercely, and he patted her on the back awkwardly. "I love you, and, don't worry, I'll be as good as gold, I promise."

His mum pulled away from the embrace abruptly to gaze at him in a severe manner. "You'd better be, or I'll send you a Howler, and then you'll really be embarrassed." She was right about that; he shuddered just thinking about his mother's voice, even louder than usual, if that was possible, chiding him in front of the whole school.

Mrs. Weasley softened again, and patted him fondly on the cheek. "Study hard, work well, make lots of friends, have fun, but be good and follow the rules. Remember we all love you very much, and write home everyday."

"I can't write home everyday, Mum," protested Bill. "Nobody writes to their parents once a day, and besides, I have to study sometime, like you said. I'll write once a week, though, like I promised Charlie."

"Oh, all right then, dear," she conceded, bestowing another hug upon him, and kissing him on the cheek, causing him to turn a vibrant shade of magenta.

When Mrs. Weasley finally released Bill, his father stepped forward, held him close for a minute, then smiled sheepishly. "What can I say? Your mum already said it all. Well, have an excellent term, and we'll see you for Christmas." He looked at his son, who was trying to conceal his nerves, and was doing a fairly decent job, and asked brightly, "That's not that far away, is it?"

"No, Dad, it's not that far away," Bill answered quietly, thinking it seemed like a century away. Taking a deep breath, he whirled around to face Charlie, and the two brothers did something they rarely did: hug each other. "Good-bye, Charlie. I'll write to you every week, I swear. Take care of our room for me, won't you, and help Mum with Ginny, Ronnie, Percy, and our two savages—good luck with Fred and George, by the way."

"Right. Good-bye, and—good luck to you," replied Charlie quickly, almost choking up.

Ignoring this for fear that he might choke up, too, Bill knelt by the four-year-old twins, and said, "Don't demolish the house while I'm away, Fred, George. I'll be very upset if you do."

"Don't give them any ideas," hissed Percy, and Bill rose, grinning as he patted the devastating duo on the head.

"I'm not worried about that, Perce, because I know you'll be there to keep them in line," Bill teased him, slapping the addressed cheerfully on the back.

"Not as well as you can—sometimes, and I do mean sometimes—they listen to you," acknowledged Percy grudgingly. Then, he held out his six-year-old hand with the dignified air of a successful businessperson. "Civilized people shake hands, instead of clapping each other on the back, Bill."

"Then you ought not to shake hands." Despite his taunt, Bill shook his brother's hand. After that, he bent to kiss two-year-old Ronnie on the head, muttering, "Good-bye, Ronnie boy. Play with Ginny a lot for me, okay?—she likes you almost as much as she likes me, for some bizarre reason, you know. See you at Christmas."

He looked at Ginny, the sibling he was the most tender with, and had an even bigger urge to protect than any of his five brothers, except perhaps Charlie, and Bill considered himself pretty defensive of them all because he had cared for them all almost like a third parent. After a moment's hesitation, he knelt and embraced his only sister tightly, feeling oddly like a parent leaving his child for the first time. "Bye-bye, Ginny girl. If your brothers push you around, lioness, you tell me, and I'll straighten them out, don't you worry." He made a mock-threatening face, and Ginny cooed in merry amusement, not intimidated in the slightest. When he turned to go, her smile faded rapidly, and she burst into tears, because she was quite attached to Bill.

"Gowing, Bill?" she whimpered, grabbing a hold of his leg.

Bill nodded. "Yes. I won't be seeing you for a long while, not until Christmas, I'm afraid, tigress."

"Ginny come wit you?" Ginny pleaded, tightening her grip.

"No." Bill shook his head, his heart hurting, and gently removed her clinging hands.

Ginny wailed, and her oldest brother kissed her flaming red hair before the whistle sounded a warning, and he hopped onto the train, and with the help of his father tugged his luggage on board. Once he was on the train, he stared out the door at his family, watching them shrink as the train moved unflinchingly and inexorably onward until they were out of sight. Then, he took a deep breath, as though he were about to dive headlong into the Arctic Ocean, and set off on a quest to find a compartment. However, he had only traveled a couple of paces before he felt someone tap his back.

"What?" he demanded, pivoting to face a boy with curly blonde hair and cerulean eyes.

"I...I was just wondering—are you new?" the boy stammered.

"Yes, I am," confessed Bill. Urgently, he asked, "Is it that obvious?"

"I wouldn't know." The other shrugged gloomily. "I'm new myself, actually, in case you couldn't tell. I was just wondering if you were new, too, because I've got a compartment for myself, and everything, but I, well, I haven't got anyone to sit with, and, you know, I thought that, if you're new, we could share it." By the time he was done issuing the invitation, the lad looked as though he wished he had never initialized the exchange in the first place.

However, Bill grinned, delighted to find someone as scared as he was, and hoping that maybe they could become friends. "Of course I'd be happy to share a compartment with you. I was just wondering where I could sit before you stopped me, to tell you the truth. It's lucky for me that you came along."

The other boy smiled slightly, as he led Bill back to his compartment. As they entered, the blonde introduced himself, "By the way, my name's Michael-Mike- O'Connor."

"William Weasley, but everyone calls me Bill."

They sat down opposite each other, neither of them knowing what to say to break the silence stretched between them. Finally, Mike commented, "I think I saw you saying good-bye to your family. Er, that was just your family, right?"

"Yeah," muttered Bill, feeling somewhat vulnerable that this boy had seen him making some of the hardest farewells in his life. "I've got a massive family."

"You're lucky to have such a large family." Mike seemed to realize that he had made Bill uncomfortable and wanted to salvage the situation, not wanting to be friendless either.

"And you're crazy."

Mike laughed. The sound relaxed the two anxious first-years, and a sense of companionship started to settle between them. "Maybe I am, but I'd do anything to have a bunch of brothers and sisters. All I have is Mum and Dad."

"I don't have bunches of sisters, I only have Ginny, the baby of the family, whose only one. But I do have tons of brothers, far too many, if you ask me, five of them!"

"Five! Blimey, that is a lot! I didn't get a chance to count. Mum says it's rude to stare."

"Yep, Mike, five: Charlie, nine, he's cool, Percy, six, a bore, Fred and George, the dreadful duo, four, and Ronnie's two, and is sometimes cute."

"I guess it sucks being the oldest."

Bill nodded ardently. "Lot's of babysitting, and being responsible for the little ones, and being shunted aside by the parents."

Before Mike could reply, the compartment door swung open and a brown-haired boy who appeared to be about eleven entered, inquiring, "Do you mind if I sit with you? The other compartments are all full."

Bill gestured languidly for the newcomer to be seated, and he did so, settling himself next to Bill. "Are you a first-year, too, then?" asked Bill.

"Yes, I'm Chris Brown," the brown-haired lad responded, holding out a hand.

"Bill Weasley." Bill shook the proffered hand. "And this is Mike O'Connor."

"Do either of you know what House you'll be in?" Chris inquired, shaking hands with Mike.

"Gryffindor, I'll wager." Bill shrugged. "My mum and dad were both in it, so I'll probably be. What about you, Chris?"

"Dunno. My mum was a Ravenclaw, but my dad was a Gryffindor," Chris replied.

"I guess than it comes down to whether or not you're more brainy or brave, huh?" joked Bill.

"Well, I'm definitely not all that brainy."

"It'll be Gryffindor, in that case. Awesome, we'll be together." Bill turned his attention to Mike, who had been following the conversation in confusion, his head spinning, as he looked first at Chris, then Bill, and then Chris again. "What about you?"

"I don't know. What are these Houses you speak of?"

"They're school Houses. Basically, you live in dorms with year-mates in your House, and spend free time in your House Common Room, from what Mum and Dad tell me," explained Chris.

"They're four Houses," Bill added. "Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart. Hufflepuff, supposedly for hardworking and loyal people, although from what I hear they're a fairly pathetic lot—haven't won the House Cup or anything in ages. Ravenclaw, for the brains—they're a nice enough group, I think, and they get their share of glory. Then, there's Slytherin..."

"The House that if I get in, I'm turning about and going straight back home," interjected Chris.

"Me too," Bill grinned. "Anyway, that's the House that's full of evil slimy gits. You-Know-Who and all his Death Eaters were Slytherins."

"But I don't know who," observed Mike. "And I don't know what Death Eaters are, either."

"You-Know-Who was like the most powerful Dark wizard ever. He was vanquished by the baby Harry Potter last year on Halloween after You-Know-Who murdered Harry's parents..."

"Lily and James Potter," cut in Chris, "my dad says they were both very powerful."

"Yes, and very brave—anyone who stands up to You-Know-Who, and his followers, the Death Eaters, is very brave," resumed Bill.

"Or very crazy," Chris muttered.

"Most likely both." Bill nodded. "Lots of people forget how dangerous his Death Eaters were, but I don't, since five of them killed my uncles, Gideon and Fabian, because they fought against You-Know-Who."

"Gideon and Fabian Prewett were your uncles?" Chirs gaped at him.

"Yes, they were Mum's brothers. I was only seven when they died in a duel with the Death Eaters, but they were brilliant wizards, I remember that, and always very kind to me—they gave the best presents."

Chris nodded. "My parents said they were impressive wizards, and that they died like heroes."

"But You-Know-Who's gone, right?" Mike looked uneasy.

"Yes," answered Chris, "and his Death Eaters have either been locked up in the Wizard prison, Azkaban, out of which nobody has ever escaped, or else are lying low, and won't terrorize the British Wizarding World in the open."

"So can we talk about something else, then?" Mike suggested, and brought up football (author's note: not American football, not that it really matters in this story), which Bill and Chris knew nothing about, and Mike spent the next hour explaining it to them.

At the end of this lecture, Bill smiled, and informed him, "This summer you have got to come to my house, so you can answer all Dad's questions about Muggles, or non-magical people. Everything related to Muggles fascinates him, and that's why some pureblood wizards, wizards from all-magical families, like Chris and I, think he lacks proper Wizarding pride, but if there's ever a family of blood traitors it's us, the Weasleys."

"I don't have anything against Muggle-borns like Mike here, either," said Chris. "It's such a stupid thing to be proud of, isn't it, blood? I mean, if you were any good at anything, you'd take pride in that instead, wouldn't you? So it's just announcing how pathetic you are, to take pride in blood. Come on, I know I'm pathetic, but I don't feel like putting up a sign that announces it to the whole wide world."

"That's right," Bill agreed, as Mike began to go pale hearing about all the prejudice he hadn't known he would have to face. "Anyway, Mike told us about his sport, and so we must teach him about ours, Quidditch."

"Kwidditch?" echoed Mike blankly, and Bill and Chris roared with laughter at the mispronunciation.

"We'll start with the proper pronunciation," Chris decided, and they spent another hour or so explaining Quidditch to Mike. At the end of this, Mike said he still preferred football, but before the other two could reply, the compartment door slid open, and a plump lady with a trolley rolled in, and they bought a plethora of snacks, including Cauldron Cakes, Chocolate Frogs, and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

Mike was surprised to discover that Bertie Bott's Beans really did come in every flavor, including, he found to his dismay, turnip. The other boy's dislike of turnips increased Bill's opinion of him still more, because he detested the vegetable himself. Also, Mike found it odd that Wizarding photos moved, and they spent a quarter of an hour conversing on the differences between Muggle and Wizarding phototgraphy.

It was a fun afternoon, filled with laughter, teasing, and candy, and Bill was shocked to find that he hadn't thought about his family since the beginning of the train ride. When the golden sun finally started to set, the three of them pulled out their Hogwarts robes, and slipped them on over their heads. Soon after the sun set, the train pulled into Hogsmeade station, and they fought their way through the crowd of chatting students clogging the corridors, and got off the train onto the equally congested platform.

"Where are we supposed to go, do you know?" Chris inquired of Bill.

About to suggest that they ought to join the tide of people heading toward the horse-less carriages at the opposite edge of the platform, Bill was cut off by a gruff, husky voice that sounded over their heads. "First-years, this way. Follow me!"

"I'm guessing we're supposed to follow him," Bill grinned.

"I gathered that much for myself, thanks," shot back Chris, as they fell into the queue behind the shouter, who towered at least ten feet over the tallest pupil's head, and seemed to be part giant. "I'm not that dumb, for your information."

Half an hour later, Bill was wishing he had learned how to vanish objects such as himself, because every eye in the Great Hall was upon him. Well, not exactly upon him. Every eye was upon him and all the other first-years, but still, all the scrutiny wasn't really comforting. Without realizing it, he drifted closer to Chris and Mike, the only beings in the Hall that he knew, unless you counted Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, which he didn't because he hadn't seen them since he was seven, and didn't want to recollect that particular incident at the moment.

He was too nervous to listen when the Sorting Hat broke into song, but it did not tell him anything that he did not know already, except that it was the agent by which students were Sorted into their Houses, and he did not begin paying attention again until Professor McGonagall, who was calling the first-years up in alphabetical order to try on the Hat and get Sorted until she reached "Brown, Christopher." To Bill's relief, Chris was Sorted into Gryffindor, and he shot him double thumbs up as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.

Again, Bill basically zoned out until "O'Connor, Michael." Mike was also placed in Gryffindor, and went to sit beside Chris, looking faintly sick, because of all the eyes upon him.

Once more, Bill's attention ebbed until he heard Professor McGonagall call his own name, and he walked, reasonably steadily and confidentially, up to the stool, sat down without falling off it, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. The tattered hat was so large that it fell over Bill's eyes, which he was thankful for, because now he did not have to see all the staring people, although he was grateful that he was at the end of the alphabet because some of the student body, at least, had let their attention wander at this point.

He knew that the hat was capable of speech, because it had shouted out the House each student was placed in to the whole hall, but he had assumed that it would only speak when it had made a final decision. However, he was very much mistaken, for the instant the hat was dumped upon his head, it began whispering to him, "Ah, the first Weasley I've had to Sort in a while."

_Can we hurry? I already know where I'm going,_ Bill thought irritably, after he got over his initial shock.

"Oh, you know where you're going already, do you?" The Sorting Hat chuckled, and then amended, once more reading Bill's mind, "Yes, I can see what you think. How could I Sort students if I couldn't read their minds? Now, I will oblige you and get on with it. Let's see...you've got the courage of a Gryffindor, yes, but you're mind is sharp, so maybe you'd be happier in Ravenclaw."

_Very funny, I know you're going to put me in Gryffindor_, Bill grumbled mentally.

To his indignation, the hat chuckled once more. "You're very curt with me, considering I have your fate in my hands, although I have none. I could put you in Slytherin, you know."

_But you won't, you'll put me in Gryffindor, like you did with my parents and all the Weasleys that ever attended Hogwarts,_ replied Bill impatiently.

"Such arrogance and audacity can only be found in a GRYFFINDOR." It screamed the word out to the whole hall. With a little more force than the task strictly required, Bill jerked the Hat off his head, and handed it to Professor McGonagall, then hurried to join the applauding Gryffindors, plopping down in the seat across from Mike that Chris and Mike had been saving for him.


	9. Chapter 9

First Day (Edited)

First Day (Edited)

Bill did not find his first day at Hogwarts the best day of his life. In fact, it was not even in the top hundred, or thousand for that matter. However, if he had done the list of the worst days of his life it would probably come in third or fourth place. From the outset, it was doomed to failure, because on the way to the Great Hall for breakfast, he, Chris, and Mike managed to get lost a grand total of three times, before they walked through the Gryffindor ghost, Nearly Headless Nick, a highly unpleasant and chilling experience in itself, who pointed them in the right direction.

After a breakfast of toast, kippers, and eggs, which were edible, but not nearly as good as his mum's, Bill and his two new friends went off to find the Charms classroom. Needless to say, this was easier said than done. They went up a wrong staircase seven times (Bill assumed they were different, but it was possible that it was, in fact, the same stairwell, and that they had gotten lost so many times that they were too disoriented to realize this), tried to get through five doors that turned out not to actually be doors but rather solid walls just pretending apparently for the sole purpose of vexing disoriented first-years, and, to cap it all of, Mike almost fell through a vanishing stair. All in all, Bill considered it fortunate that they arrived a second before the bell rang, a miraculous feat he had not expected, but was eternally grateful for, because he could not imagine trying to explain to his mum how he had gotten detention on his first day at school.

Professor Flitwick, who taught Charms, and who was so short (Bill reckoned that he must have some elf blood in him) that he had to perch like a bird on a stack of books just so he could see his pupils over the top of his desk, began the period by taking role in a squeaky voice that made Bill wonder how in the world he could be expected to endure it for seven years in a row. When Flitwick had finished taking roll call, and found out that everyone was in attendance, he smiled around at the assembled lot of new students, all of whom were too nervous to return his grin, borrowed a toad from a Hufflepuff boy in the front row, and made it whiz around the room.

For the first time that day, Bill brightened, thinking of how he could tease his brothers by making their objects fly around the house. However, his excitement waned when he learned that he would not be able to make objects glide through the air like that for months at least, since apparently there was a great deal of theory that must first be mastered before actual practical magic could be attempted. After admitting as much with the upbeat air in which he seemed to accomplish everything else, Professor Flitwick ordered the class to take out quills and parchment, and they spent the rest of the lesson taking down notes that Bill did not understand a word of. The fact that Chris and Mike were just as bewildered did nothing to hearten him, because, after all, if they had no more comprehension of what was occurring in Charms than he did, then they could not tutor him in Charms, and it seemed likely that he would require all the help he could get in that subject.

Bill, Chris, and Mike did not bother trying to enjoy the break with rest of the students in the courtyard after double Charms, and, instead, devoted the time to trying to find their next lesson, Potions, which happened to be in the dungeons. By the time they had found the dungeons, the bell had rung ending break, and by the time they had found the appropriate room, they were only just on time.

On a whole, Bill discovered that Potions was far worse than Charms. Professor Flitwick, while thoroughly confusing, had at least been good-natured, while Professor Snape who taught Potions was anything but. When the bell rang, he swept into the classroom, bringing the frigid temperature in the dungeons down another twenty degrees, wearing a black cloak that did not contrast well against his sallow skin, oily curtain of dark hair, and cruel, empty tunnel-like eyes. In essence, Snape resembled a particularly ugly and irritable vampire. Obviously, Bill was not the only one who felt this way, for Chris smirked, but quickly hid it with his hand, when Snape glared in their direction.

After he had marched to the front of the class, Snape, like Flitwick, took roll call. Once he was satisfied that all his new pupils were here so he could bully them, Snape began lecturing them in a soft, menacing voice about how Potions was very different from most magic, and, therefore, seemed not to be appreciated as much as it should by most wizards and witches, who tended to esteem only subjects where there was a great deal of foolish wand-waving. He then asked impossibly difficult questions of the first-year Gryffindors, but not, Bill noted bitterly, of the Slytherins, who seemed to find their Head of House's sarcastic comments to each of the Gryffindor's responses absolutely hilarious.

As Bill had feared, Snape finally turned his attention to him and his friends. "What, Brown, are two other common names for aconite, and why are those other names used?"

Chris wrinkled up his nose, scrunching his eyes thoughtfully, and, after a moment's intense contemplation, during which Snape tapped his foot loudly and impatiently, and the Slytherins sniggered, looked around frantically at Bill for help. As clueless as his comrade, Bill shook his head to show he could not be of any assistance in this matter.

"Er, I'm afraid I don't know, sir," Chris confessed, his cheeks as ruddy as apples with humiliation.

"Can you read, Mr. Brown?" drawled Snape.

"Um―what? Oh, yeah, I can read, yes, sir," Chris stammered, shocked at the question. "Of course I can read, Professor."

"So you, like most of your peers it seems, were merely too lazy to read the assigned textbooks, I gather."

Chris flushed with anger. "I read the assigned textbooks, but you can't expect us to memorize everything in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, and, frankly, as you're the teacher, you should be telling us the answers if we get it wrong, instead of mocking us!"

Privately, Bill thought the other boy had a legitimate point, but he doubted Snape would listen. He was right, for Snape's eyes narrowed into malicious slits, and he whispered in a silky voice that somehow everyone in the class was able to hear anyhow, "Five points from Gryffindor for your impudence, Brown. Maybe that will teach you to be more respectful of me in the future. Anyway, for your information, aconite is a highly poisonous plant, hence one of its other common names, wolfsbane. Aconite is also known as monkshood, since the shape of its flowers resembles a monk's cowl. Now, since you were so interested in learning all about aconite, I suggest you copy it all down." His eyes flicked contemptuously about at each of the students in turn. "All of you, this instant!"

There was a rummage in bags for quills and parchment. When everyone had out the necessary implements for note-taking, Snape turned his gaze to Mike next. "What is the mucus exuded from a flobberworm frequently used for in potionmaking, O'Connor?" he demanded.

"Does, it, erm, make a potion thinner, Professor?" Mike hazarded a guess, his tone hesitant.

"No, you idiot boy, it does no such thing. It does quite the opposite, actually: it thickens potions." Quills scratched throughout the dungeons as everyone recorded this. Snape could not let the issue die a natural death without insulting poor Mike, it turned out, for he continued icily, "May I suggest that you never consume anything with flobberworm extract in it, O'Connor, because it might go to your head which is much too thick already."

At this, Mike's face became a gigantic chili pepper, and Chris trembled with wrath, barely restraining himself from snapping at Snape. Fortuantely, Snape missed this, because he was turning his focus to Bill.

"Weasley, in what are mandrakes regularly used?"

"Potions, Professor," he replied instantaneously, stalling for time, in which he might be able to remember something that could help him, because he did not want to look like a fool in front of all these people.

"A very safe answer," smirked Snape, "and may I take this invaluable opportunity to thank you for stating the obvious, since we are in Potions class, as some of the more astute occupants in this room have undoubtedly realized, so of course anything I ask you will relate to Potions. Please enlighten us as to which type of potions one would use a mandrake in."

Due to his years of experience in ignoring Fred and George's jibes, Bill ignored this, figuring he would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing his fury or embarrassment. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath, calming his mind, so he could think…he recalled his mother saying something about needing new mandrakes for an antidote for Doxy bites…he was not certain that this was the answer Snape was looking for, but it was worth a shot. He could be wrong, and then Snape would mock him, but he would mock him if he admitted that he did not know, anyway, so it was worth a try at sounding semi-intelligent.

"Antidotes, sir," he stated, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Apparently he was right, because Snape's expression fell slightly, as the class scribbled down the bit about mandrakes. "A very general and unilluminating response, Weasley, but correct, which is something I suppose I should be happy about, seeing as the rest of your fellow Gryffindor year-mates could not manage that much."

After Snape had finished poking fun at every Gryffndor first-year to his satisfaction, he split them all into pairs and commanded them to open to page thirteen of their _Magical Drafts and Potions_ book, and concoct a supposedly "simple'" potion that should, if created correctly, cure boils.

As Bill and his partner, Jason Flanagan, another first-year Gryffindor, discovered, the simple potion was not so easy to concoct, after all, as they kept weighing dried nettles incorrectly, or crushing the snake fangs too much or too little. Snape's habit of flitting about the room like a massive mosquito, making waspish criticisms about all the Gryffindors' work, while never bothering to correct the Slytherins, did nothing to facilitate anyone's success. By the end of the class, Bill and Jason had only succeeded in creating a navy blue concoction, when the directions clearly called for a vibrant purple potion, but this was a failure put into perspective when, on their way up to Transfiguration, Mike informed him that he and Chris, who had been paired together, had only made a brown mess.

After only taking three incorrect staircases, and heading down only two wrong corridors, they arrived in the Transfiguration classroom just after two Ravenclaw girls, and seated themselves cautiously in a middle row. When the bell rang, and everyone was settled, Professor McGonagall rose, her face as stern as it had been the night before, and commenced to give them a strict talking-to that would have given even his mother a run for her money, Bill decided.

"Transfiguration is among some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she pronounced, peering around at them all seriously, and Bill wondered why every instructor felt compelled to assert that their subject was the best and the most important. It was really very narcissistic. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Bill made a mental note not to act up in Transfiguration, because he could not imagine his mother's reaction if he got expelled...she'd probably strangle him...and he did not really want to die so young.

He barely had time to reach this conclusion before his train of musing was interrupted when Professor McGonagall transformed her desk into a pig, causing half the class to squeal like piglets themselves, and back again, with an impassive expression on her face, as though she had accomplished something as ordinary as sending an owl to a friend. Naturally, Bill, like everyone else, was very much impressed, and could not wait to get started, thinking that it would be a very useful spell to show off with, but his enthusiasm ebbed considerably when he realized that it they were not going to be transfiguring furniture into animals for a very long time.

Like Flitwick, she made them copy down a ton of very complicated notes that Bill had not the vaguest idea what they might translate into English as. Then, it what was no doubt supposed to be the high point of the lesson, Professor McGonagall asked Stephanie James, a Gryffindor sitting in the front row, to hand them all a match, and ordered them to turn it into a needle.

Waving his wand about like an imbecile, and attempting to chant the incanatation correctly just like the rest of his peers, Bill was quite surprised when his match was suddenly no longer a match, but a needle. _How did that happen?_ he wondered in astonishment. Clearly, his success alarmed Mike, who was beside him, as well, for he cried out as though the Cruciatious Curse was being used against him. Professor McGonagall glared owlishly at him for destroying the quiet.

"What did I say, Mr. O'Connor, about fooling around in my classroom?" she demanded, marching imperiously over to the addressed.

Mike blushed to the roots of his curly blonde hair. "I'm sorry, Professor, truly. I—I was just startled. Bill transfigured his match, see." He gestured feebly at what had once been a match.

Not at all appreciating being dragged into this, Bill tried to make himself look smaller, but, since he was cursed with a lanky build, his endeavor was doomed to failure. Fortunately, Professor McGonagall chose to study what had been his match critically, not him. After a moment of scrutinizing the needle carefully, she set it back down on the desk again and returned her gaze to Mike, who cringed.

"Mr. O'Connor, are you Muggle-Born?" she asked, her voice less harsh than it had been last time.

"Yes, Professor." Mike nodded, flushing worse than ever.

"Then, I will forgive your exclamation of shock this time, but make sure it doesn't happen again." She then focused on Bill, something that did not cause him to go into spasms of delight. "As for you, Mr. Weasley, this needle is far from satisfactory."

Bill managed to repress the urge to scowl. The needle seemed perfectly acceptable to him, and, besides, nobody else had been more successful. Sure, she could do a better job, but did she have to rub it in? Did she have to spoil his mood just when he was starting to feel as though he might eventually grasp some of his magical education? Were all the teachers here this unsupportive? Why could he not continue to be home-schooled?

Professor McGonagall held the needle closer to him, so he could inspect it, as well, as she went on, "For instance, it still has no eye, and it is thicker than most needles are, still resembling its original form, the match. You should work to improve on that. If this were an exam, that would only be acceptable. Here is another match." She handed him one, and Bill suppressed the savage instinct to snatch it, and throw it across the room.

"Yes, Professor," he responded dully, instead, taking it.

She realized that the whole class was watching, and had decided that there was no point in working hard if all their successes would be greeted in much the same way, and she seemed to reach the conclusion that a reward was needed to keep them all motivated, so she offered Bill a slight smile. Still, nobody, not even Bill, seemed inspired to greater heights, probably because they were too new at Hogwarts to appreciate how seldom it was that Minerva McGonagall smiled.

"But," she allowed, and Bill looked up again, "since you are the first to transfigure your match into a needle that would be satisfactory in an exam, you win Gryffindor five points. If you can thicken your needle and give it an eye by the end of the lesson, it will be ten more. Carry on, all of you."

Bill smiled. If there was going to be a reward, then he would try...now all he had to do was figure out how in the world he had accomplished the feat the first time around. Undaunted, he shrugged. After all, he'd done it once, so there was no earthly reason why he could not accomplish it again. Bearing this in mind, he approached the task with new vigor, and, by the end of the lesson, he had won Gryffindor ten more points. He grinned lazily when he won more points. Maybe the first day had not been so bad, after all. Winning points was cool, because it made those who were in your House pleased with you, and being the center of attention was fun.


	10. Chapter 10

First Kiss (Edited)

First Kiss (Edited)

Twelve-year-old Bill Weasley looked up in indignation, as his History of Magic textbook and his essay on goblin wars, which he, unlike a majority of the student body found intriguing, although he kept his interest well concealed, was pulled out from under his nose. He was doing his homework on a Sunday evening. His mother would have a fit if she knew that her second-year son was leaving his schoolwork until that late, but he had always managed top grades by working steadily in this manner, sometimes at the last minute. After all, cool people did not study on Friday or Saturday evenings unless they were in the fifth, sixth, or seventh years, and Bill was cool. At the very least, he was popular, but he would not be popular if he was boring, and studying too much on the weekends was boring.

He was expecting to discover Chris or Mike, or even Jason Flanagan or Brian Johnson, both of whom shared his dormitory, looking at him mockingly. Instead, he found himself gazing into Stephanie James' hazel eyes. "Hey, Steph," he greeted her as she took the seat across from him at the table in the Gryffindor common room. "What's up? Did you finish your History of Magic essay yet?"

"No," she answered gloomily. "I still need six more inches—a two foot essay on goblin wars, that's insane! I hate Professor Binns, who ought to be chucked in a blasted garbage bin, where he might be of some use."

"Nah, all the garbage would just complain that he was lowering their real estate value, and flee into the outside world, and then we would have to throw out all the rubbish again, this time in another container."

"You're probably right." Stephanie smiled slightly.

"Aren't I always?" Bill raised his eyebrows in a way that had caused an increasing amount of girls to giggle this year. "Can I have my essay back now? Maybe we can work together?"

"I don't want to work on my essay at the moment; it's not due until Wednesday, and I can't bring myself to work on it now." Stephanie's face became purposeful. "I didn't come over here to work on any essay with you."

"Great, well, then can I have my essay back?" he asked patiently.

Waving her hand, as though he were a pesky fly she longed to swat, Stephanie ignored this. "I came over to talk to you, idiot, and you can have your stupid essay back when I'm done, but, for now, I want your undivided attention."

"You sound like my mum," he complained, rolling his eyes. When she glared at him he groaned, "Alright, alright, you have my undivided attention, so say what you will and then return my essay so one of us can pass this year, Steph." He grinned endearingly at her, so she would understand the last remark was a harmless joke to be taken with a grain of salt.

"You know Jennifer Cassidy, right?" asked Stephanie, speaking of her best mate.

"Jennifer Cassidy?" Bill frowned in mock consternation. "The burnette with awesome blue eyes who happens to be in my year and best friends with one Stephanie James? No, I don't know her. Why?"

"Because she wants to know if you'll, er, go for a walk with her around the grounds next Saturaday at five," replied Steph.

"You mean she's asking me out?" Bill asked stupidly.

"If you want to put it so bluntly, yes." Steph bobbed her head in affirmation.

Bill allowed himself a grin of triumph, because the prettiest girl in the year was asking out him of all people, which meant that he was very popular, indeed. He could not wait to spill the beans to Chris and Mike, who would certainly be a little jealous, but happy for him.

"Tell her I'll meet her in the entrance hall at five, then."

"I will," agreed Stephanie, handing him back his textbook and essay before walking across the common room to speak with Jennifer, who, Bill now realized, had been watching their exchange like a hawk.

Now that he had his materials back, Bill discovered with a pang that he did not feel much like studying anymore, and he packed up his homework, promising himself he would do it the following day, and plopped down in a sofa beside Chris and Mike. Feeling Jennifer's eyes upon him, Bill made certain that he made Chris and Mike laugh more than usual.

All through that week, Jennifer flooded Bill's poor befuddled mind. When his professors were speaking, he found himself thinking of her, of her body, and watching her fiddle with her hair, though by some miracle his grades did not slip, probably because he was determined to keep them up, so she would not become convinced that he was an airhead. Whenever he answered a question in class, or performed a spell correctly, he found himself shooting her furtive gazes out of the corner of his eyes, seeking her approval. Sometimes she would notice, smile, and offer him a double-thumbs-up.

Finally, Saturday night came, and they met in the entrance hall. For a little while that felt like an eternity to Bill, they stood their awkwardly, gazing at each other in their jeans and T-shirts. Then, he heard himself suggest, "Shall we go for a walk in the pale moonlight, then?"

"How romantic," giggled Jennifer, rather more shrilly than she usually would have done, and they stepped out into the grounds, moving down the stairs slowly. She looked up, and the dying sun was reflected in her brilliant, piercing turquoise eyes, the color of a tranquil sea. "A pity it isn't dark enough for the moon to be out yet."

"We can use our imagination," he responded, acting on some barbaric impulse and slinging his arm around her shoulders as they began walking toward the lake.

To his surprise, she did not pull away, but nestled closer to him as they continued their stroll. "How are Chris and Mike?" she inquired.

"They're fine. And Steph?" he returned the question.

"She's fine. Well, actually, she's jealous, because she's spending the night alone."

"Chris and Mike are jealous, as well. Maybe we can hook one of them up with Steph."

Again, Jennifer emitted a somewhat hysterical laugh. "You're funny."

"I'll have you know I was being serious," Bill teased her, as they arrived at the lake's edge, and she slipped out of her trainers, rolled up her jeans, exposing her smooth ankles, and flopped down onto the sand, dipping her feet in the chilly early October water.

"I love the water," she remarked dreamily, as Bill lay down beside her, and dipped his own feet in the lake. "I always wanted to go swimming in here from the day I arrived, you know, but I was afraid of the giant squid."

"I've always heard it was friendly," Bill observed. "I'm not as good a swimmer as I'd like to be, though. I spent most of my childhood at home, because Mum was afraid something horrible would happen if we strayed too far from home."

"She might have been right," Jennifer noted fairly. "You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters are quite dangerous, but I didn't have to go far away from home to swim, because I was raised near the beach."

"That's nice."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them once more, then Jennifer spoke up. "I hear you have a massive family."

"I do, I'm the oldest of seven kids, which means I also spent most of my childhood caring for my younger siblings," he informed her.

"It doesn't sound like much of a childhood," she remarked. "I found it annoying enough looking after my little brother."

Bill shrugged. "I never knew anything else, you know, and, as annoying as it could be sometimes, being responsible for Percy and the devil twins, I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in the world."

"And I would have given all the gold in the world to not have a kid brother to care for," Jennifer replied, smiling, as the sun went down at last, staining the earth and the lake blood red. Suddenly, she looked coy, and leaned closer to him. "But I know one thing that I wouldn't miss for all the gold in the world."

"What?"

"This." She pressed her lips, which were infinitely softer than he could ever have imagined even in his wildest of daydreams, to his. For a moment, they remained in that pose until Jennifer pulled away just as abruptly as she had initiated the kiss.

"Shall we meet again next Saturday evening?" Bill inquired.

"Yes, but next time you have to start the kiss," stipulated Jennifer.

Bill smiled and brought his lips to hers with more confidence than he thought he could have in a moment like this, although, to be honest, there were butterflies zooming around at about a million miles an hour in his stomach, but, at least, they did not seem to affect his kissing her. "Deal."

He and Jennifer continued to see each other every Saturday night, and their evening strolls soon became a part of Bill's life, a part of his weekly routine, and slowly they spent more of their time together, though they both were careful not to neglect their friends.

When Christmas approached and it came time to ride the Hogwarts Express back home to their families, Bill, Mike, Chris, Jennifer, and Stephanie crowded into a compartment, and feasted on Cauldron Cakes, Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, and Chocolate Frogs, laughing and talking merrily with each other, excited by the prospect of the holidays.

It was mid-evening when they finally pulled into Kings Cross Station, where they quickly unloaded their trunks, eager to see their families, who were waiting on the platform, once more. After they had exited the train, and Mike, Chris, and Steph had left them to find their families, Bill swept Jennifer up into a farewell kiss, one that most unfortunately was interrupted...

"Bill!"

Bill broke free of Jennifer, and pivoted to see his father rushing toward him, his face the same hue as his hair.

"What are you doing?" his father demanded, as he reached them.

"Saying good-bye," Bill mumbled.

"I see," responded Mr. Weasley dryly.

Deciding that his father was dead set on humiliating him in front of his girlfriend, Bill waved to her. "Bye, Jennifer. See you at Hogwarts."

"See you. Er, nice meeting you," she added to Mr. Weasley, before bustling off in search of her own family, leaving the two Weasleys alone.

Mr. Weasley said nothing, as he hugged and kissed his son, and put the boy's trunk on a trolley, and, after a while, Bill felt compelled to shatter the awkward silence. "Dad, where is everyone?" he asked.

"Your mum says that Fred and George are going through an even more horrible phase than usual, if you'll believe it, and they made Percy's skin turn green, so naturally your mum doesn't want the three of them in public. Charlie, Ronnie, and Ginny all have colds—you know how these things spread like wildfire in our house. But—" Here he gazed severely at his son as they exited the station—"you ought to be immensely grateful that it was me, not your mum that broke up that 'good-bye.'"

"I know," muttered Bill, "trust me, I know. She would've flown off the handle worse than you did."

"Excuse me? I did not fly off the handle."

"Um, yeah you did," Bill countered. "You screamed my name in the middle of a public place, for Merlin's sake..."

"Most people would just interpret that as a greeting from an indulgent father," Mr. Weasley smiled, as they stood on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street.

Bill ignored this. "Then you had to ask what I was doing when it was obvious to anyone who hasn't got rocks rolling around in their head what I was doing."

"I couldn't believe you were doing what you were doing at the age of thirteen in a public place, if you must know," responded Mr. Weasley. They crossed the heavily congested London road, and dashed into their car. As soon as they climbed in, he gazed furtively at the thirteen-year-old beside him. "You won't tell if I, er, use the Invisibility Booster? I mean with Muggle holiday traffic...how on earth they manage it when it is so slow...do you know how they do?"

"No." Bill shook his head. "We can't take Muggle Studies till third-year. I'm a second-year, remember?"

"I remember, and it doesn't matter that you don't take it, after all, they don't teach anything of any interest...like how plugs, I think I'm pronouncing it right, although it might be pugs...work, or..."

"Yeah, Dad, that's right," interrupted Bill, having heard this several times in the past. "Anyway, I won't tell Mum on you if you don't tell her about my little secret."

"Are you blackmailing me?" Mr. Weasley frowned at him.

"Nope, just making a deal," Bill improvised calmly.

A sigh. "Fine, as long as you keep your grades up, I won't say anything to your mother."

"Fair enough." The boy shrugged, and the car flew into the air.


	11. Chapter 11

Picking Classes (Edited)

It was the day before Easter break, and nobody was paying much attention in Transfiguration. In fact, it was quite safe to say that nobody was paying any attention whatsoever to what Professor McGonagall was saying about turning teapots into tortoises. Bill had started a game of hangman on the side of his parchment that was supposed to be bearing his notes with Mike, while Chris doodled a picture of Jennifer Cassidy, his latest crush, on his parchment. Brian's mouth was agape, Jason was staring as blatantly as it was possible to in Professor McGonagall's class out the window, and Jennifer, Steph, and Heather were busily scribbling notes which had nothing to do with the lesson to each other.

Bill was just about to hang Mike's man when he could not guess the word "Switching Spells" when the bell rang. The half the class that had been snoozing with their eyes open jerked in alarm, while their fellows who had been doodling, playing games with neighbors, or passing notes quickly, shoved their parchments into their backpacks to conceal any evidence of wrongdoing. Over the din that ensued before the collective rabid lurch to the exit, Professor McGonagall called, "I want an essay on the use of Switching Spells in the transformation of teapots into tortoises to be handed in next lesson."

"Horrible hag," grumbled Chris, as they stood in the queue waiting impatiently to leave the classroom. "She had to wait till the last minute to announce the assignment."

"She knew we all had our heads in the clouds in one way or another," Mike reasoned on a sigh. "That essay was a punishment, because she knew we all had no clue about how to turn a teapot into a tortoise, seeing as we hardly listened to a word she said."

"I think she would've given us an assignment anyhow. I mean, we're talking about McGonagall here. When has she not given us a load of homework?" whispered Bill, because he did not wish for Professor McGonagall, who for some reason was standing by the door handing out a form of some sort, to overhear. Thus far, he had managed not to cross her much, and he wanted to keep it that way. "But I wish she didn't have to dump on us when everyone else has." He was thinking about all the other homework essays they had been assigned over break, which was already promising to be as stressful as school was.

Before the others could reply, they had finally reached McGonagall who thrust one form each at them, ordering, "Fill them out and return them to me."

"What are we filling out?" Bill asked.

"It's in bold print on the form, as you would see, if you went to the immense bother of reading the heading, Weasley," she snapped, pushing them out of the door, so she could hand the next group of students their papers. "Kindly read it, and then see if you have any questions that are not clearly answered on the form itself. If you do, see me. Until you have done so, however, go."

Scowling, Bill looked at the heading, as the second-year Gryffindors traipsed back to the common room, and saw that his query had indeed been answered, for the form was entitled **Third-Year Course Sign-ups**.

"Why do we have to sign up for classes this year?" he demanded irritably, trying to cover how stupid he felt.

"As McGonagall so wisely said," Mike informed him, pointing at his own paper, "you ought to read the form before you ask questions, because once again, your inquiry is easily answered. We have to sign-up for classes this year, because we get to pick classes from the listed courses."

"Oh." Bill spotted the line Mike referred to and read on. "Damn it, we can't drop any of our original classes! I was hoping to drop Potions. Why the hell couldn't Snape teach an optional class instead, like say, how to cope with being a vampire?"

"What a pity," agreed Mike.

"Ah, well, at least I don't have to concern myself with this rubbish," remarked Chris, shoving his form into his satchel nonchalantly. "I'll just hand it to my parents, and they'll decide everything for me."

"You're brilliant." Bill grinned at his friend. "That's what I'll do, too."

"I always knew I was brilliant, but thanks." Chris smiled back at him.

"Well, I can't do that." Mike sounded mournful, as he gazed at the list of courses now open to them. "I have to decide for myself. Hmm, I don't really know anything about any of these subjects. I'll probably just shut my eyes, drop my wand on the list of optional classes, and take whatever classes it lands upon."

"Sounds perfectly rational to me," answered Chris, as the other two lads put away their new schedule forms, as well.

The next evening when Bill, his father and Charlie, both of whom had gone to pick him up at Kings Cross, arrived home all they heard was Mrs. Weasley yelling something about a spider on the top of her voice.

"Welcome home," Charlie smirked slyly at his brother. "Bet you missed this."

"More than words explain." Bill smiled faintly, and then added more thoughtfully, "I didn't know Mum was afraid of spiders."

"Neither did I," agreed Charlie, shrugging, as they took seats at the kitchen table.

"That makes three of us, then," their father commented while they heard the names of the devastating duo hollered at full pitch above their heads. Before any of them could make any further guesses as to what new chaos was now engulfing the Weasley household, Percy, with a self-important expression etched upon his every feature, hastened down the stairs, little Ronnie, who was scarlet-faced and whimpering softly, on his hip. As Percy passed them, apparently not noticing them, on his way to the freezer, Mr. Weasley put out a hand to halt his third eldest son, and inquired, "What's going on?"

"With all due respect, Father, I rather think the more accurate phrasing would be, 'What **isn't** going on?'" Percy settled Ronnie on the chair to the left of Charlie, and continued walking over to the freezer.

As he did so, Bill whispered to Charlie, who was sitting across from him, "Father?"

"It's Percy's way of addressing Dad now, and I think Dad's finally starting to get used to it, came as a bit of a shock to him, though. I mean, when was the last time you called him 'Father'?" his brother replied softly.

"Hmm, I actually don't think I ever called him that, surprisingly enough."

"Exactly, and Perce has taking to calling Mum 'Mother,' as well, though she seems to like it. She says it's nice to know at least one of her kids is respectful."

"Pompous is a more accurate description of it," Bill scoffed.

"Hey, the words are hers not mine." Charlie's hands rose in a posture of innocent helplessness.

At that moment, their whispered conversation was cut off when Percy returned and set a bowl of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream in front of Ronnie, who stopped whimpering and began to eat the dessert with tiny, tentative bites. Sitting by his father, Percy began to explain, "Fred and George were picking on poor Ronnie as usual—well, they pick on Ginny, too, of course..."

"I'll have to talk with them about that," Bill scowled. "I told them to leave her alone. Well, I told them to leave Ronnie alone, too, of course, but I was especially clear about laying off Ginny."

Percy seemed to fully notice Bill's presence for the first time, for he smiled slightly in greeting. "Hello, Bill. I hope you had an excellent term. Anyway, of course you can talk to them if you think it will do a whit of good, which I doubt, seeing as Mother has had plenty of words with them about it, and they just won't stop bullying everyone..."

"That's the problem, isn't it, they don't see it as bullying, do they?" reasoned Charlie. "They think everything they do is a harmless joke."

"Then they are seriously deluded. However, all this is quite beside the point, as stealing Ronnie's teddy bear and turning it into a spider in revenge for breaking their toy broomstick or whatever, is very wrong indeed. I mean, it would be understandable if it had been accidental, but to purposefully terrorize someone younger than you is simply unable to be justified. Naturally, Mother was upset, and that's why she's scolding them thoroughly..."

"Sounds like a little more than a lecture is happening, though, doesn't it?" Charlie's eyes traveled up to focus on the ceiling as theystarted to hear the unmistakable cacophony of slaps and wails coming from Fred and George's bedroom. "It's official. They've been spanked more times than Percy, Bill, and I have put together."

"Somehow it's not a record I envy," sniffed Percy. "They can keep the glory of it all to their demonic selves, if you ask me."

"You can't pretend they don't deserve to hold it," Bill laughed, and Charlie joined him. Even Percy smiled faintly in amusement, but Mr. Weasley moaned in despair and rested his head in his hands, as the resounding smacks from above finally stopped, though the cries continued unabated.

"Wow, that was a long one," continued Bill. "Most I ever got from her was three, probably because I was three at the time, but that was definitely more than five..."

"Well, she does have to do two of them," Charlie reminded him, as they heard feet descending the stairs, and, sensing that it was Mrs. Weasley, they fell silent, so as to not rile her more. Looking harried and irascible, she crossed over to her youngest son.

"How are you, Ronnie boy?" she asked.

"I'm better now, Mummy." Ronnie gulped down the last of his strawberry ice cream. "Ice cream made everything better, but I miss teddy."

"I know, dear. You were very brave." Swooping down, she kissed his forehead. "Fred and George will be down in a moment, and they'll apologize to you for turning your teddy bear into a disgusting spider."

"I don't like spiders," Ronnie shuddered, but nobody except Bill heard this, because Fred and George, a little red-eyed but otherwise devilishly normal, arrived in the kitchen.

"We aren't going to apologize to Ickle Ronniekins," established Fred firmly, apparently having overheard his mother's last statement. "Right, George?"

"Exactly, Fred, we're not going to apologize, because he deserved everything he got from us," George affirmed.

"Boys," Mr. Weasley began, but the terror twins ran over him.

"He destroyed our toy broomstick, so we destroyed his stupid cuddly teddy bear that he's too old for, anyhow, so it's fair and square," insisted Fred.

"Yeah, if anyone deserves an apology it's us," finished George.

Mrs. Weasley swelled up like a balloon that was about to explode. "You'll apologize to your little brother this instant for frightening him half out of his wits, or we'll have another, longer, chat right here, and I won't be using my hand, either, I promise you!"

There was a long pause, which went unbroken in the kitchen, and Bill wondered vaguely if his two younger siblings were foolhardy enough to see if she would make good on her threat, which she undoubtedly would. Then, to everyone's intense relief, George mumbled in the general direction of Ronnie, "Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Yeah, sorry, we didn't know you were such a coward," Fred completed the thought. As soon as he was done expressing as much, the pair of them fled, before she could work out what they had said, and probably assuming that if they were out of her sight, they would be out of her mind. They were correct in this assumption, because as soon as they bounded out of the room, she looked around the kitchen, and caught sight of her eldest boy.

"Ah, you're home, Bill." She wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her back, mumbling a hello. "How was term?"

"It was fine."

"Just fine?" Molly frowned slightly in mild concern.

"Great, then."

"And how are your grades?"

"Alright." Bill shrugged languidly, thinking he wanted to eat dinner now, not be interrogated, although he recognized that his mother meant well by her questioning.

Mrs. Weasley's frowned deepened, so that her forehead was lined. "Just alright?"

"I meant, they're very good, excellent, in fact, like always," amended Bill quickly, realizing that she was preparing to lecture him on the importance of academic excellence, and he was not in the mood. Fortunately, his stomach deigned to back him in this, by growling. The growl grabbed his mother's attention.

"You must be hungry, dear," she remarked, tying an apron about her waist and marching over to the stove. "I'll just cook you up some of that potato and leek soup we had for dinner. How's that sound?"

"Delicious, thanks, Mum," Bill smiled while he watched her turn on the stove on which sat a black pot. Apparently, this pot still contained soup, for she waved her wand over it, obviously stirring the contents.

"And how are Chris and Mike?" she asked, as she worked, now off the topic of grades, to his relief.

"They're happy and healthy, just like me."

"I'm glad to hear it." She set a bowl full of soup before him, and he made the mistake of attempting to eat a spoonful at once, discovered it was much too hot to do so, spat it out, and began mixing his soup around to cool it down.

"Mum, I have a form for you and Dad to fill out," he educated her, as he did so.

"What sort of form?"

"One that says the classes I'm going to take next year," replied Bill.

"Then it's not mine to fill out, is it? It's yours to fill out," she responded briskly.

"What do you mean? You guys are my parents...you have to fill it out!" Bill exclaimed horrified, glancing appealingly at his father, as well.

"We have to do no such thing. You have to sit down sometime and decide what courses you want to take. We wouldn't be doing you a favor if we chose for you, and it wouldn't hurt you to consider what you want to do with your life," Mrs. Weasley answered firmly, and her spouse nodded in agreement.

"I'm only thirteen," Bill scowled, as he dug into his soup. "That's much too young to be thinking about that sort of thing."

"It is not! For your information, Bill, Percy here has known that he wants to go into the Ministry since he was a five-year-old." Mrs. Weasley gestured expansively at Percy as if to prove her point.

"Yeah, well, that's Percy, isn't it? And when I was five, I wanted to repair broomsticks. I used to think that was exciting. Now I realize it's not." Bill swallowed two more spoonfuls of soup, and then conceded, "I'll fill out the form myself sometime over break. On top of all the other homework I have to do. What a jolly holiday this'll be!"

The time that Bill chose to complete the form was late in the evening on the last night of Easter break. He was just reading through the course list again, hoping vainly that a handful of classes, or at least one class would jump out at him, which was not happening, when an owl banged on the kitchen window. Bill, his mother, and his father all glanced over at the window, where they saw a tawny owl demanding entry.

"It's Chris'. I'll take it," Bill grumbled, shoving himself out of his chair, ambling over to the window, and opening it. The owl swooped in and landed on top of the form he still had to fill out, and Bill took the piece of parchment it proffered, and read:

_Bill-_

_Hey, you have got to help me, mate. Mum and Dad have refused to fill out my form, saying that I have to chose which subjects I want to take next year, because it is my life not their life, and, to make the long story short, I procrastinated until now, and Dad claims if I do not finish filling out the form tonight, he will strangle me. Please tell me the classes your parents signed you up for, so I can take them, too, because I have no clue what classes I want to take. Damn it, Dad is looking over at me suspiciously. I think he knows I am not working. Better go before he gets madder than he already is at my procrastination skills,_

_Chris_

Bill sighed, and shook his head. Then, he walked over to the family desk, pulled out a piece of parchment, made his way back over to the table, and scribbled:

_**Chris:**_

_**Sorry, but I'm afraid I can't be of much help, as my parents also refused to fill out my form, and I also practiced the art of putting of until tomorrow that which, strictly speaking, I should have done the day before. That being the case, I'm thinking of following in Mike's stead and just taking whatever courses my wand falls on. I'll owl you with the classes my wand falls on, so you can take them, too, or you can owl me with whatever classes you take, so we can be together.**_

_**Bill**_

He tied the letter to Chris' owl, and sent it off into the night, before he whipped out his wand, and dropped it on the parchment. It landed upon Arithmancy. Before he could fill out that he was going to take the aforementioned subject on his form, his mother eyed his suspiciously. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Nothing illegal," he replied, sensing she wouldn't approve of his method of selecting courses, as he wrote in that he would be taking Arithmancy.

"No son of mine would ever do anything illegal, but that doesn't answer the question, and you know it. Now out with it! What are you up to?"

"Choosing my classes like you told me to, Mum." Bill was all innocent evasion, as he dropped his wand yet again, saw that it landed on Divination, and wrote down that subject.

"Then why do you keep dropping your wand?" pressed Mrs. Weasley, her eyes narrowed. "I don't see how picking subjects is an activity that requires use of a wand, and, even if it did, you're underage, and not permitted to do magic outside school, which would be illegal, and you just claimed that you were doing nothing illegal."

"I'm not using magic and I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm just dropping my wand and taking whatever classes it falls on."

"What? You'll do no such thing," she snarled, marching over to him, and wrenching his wand off the table. "You'll sit here, and decide in a responsible manner what subjects you're interested in pursuing, even if it takes you all night. When you're done, you can come to me and get your wand back." With that, she stormed back over to the sink, and resumed her dish washing with new vigor.

Just as he was starting to debate whether Care of Magical Creatures would be a less demanding course than Ancient Runes, Chris' owl zoomed through the open window, and landed on the table before him, holding out its arm, so he could relieve it of its burden. For the second time that night, he read a note written in Chris' scrawl:

_Bill-_

_I cannot get away with it. Dad, whose watching me like a blasted hawk or like McGonagall when she knows I am copying off you on a quiz/test, saw me drop my wand, and told me that if I do not pick out my classes the proper way, he will make me very sorry indeed, so I actually have to decide which ones I want to take. I am thinking of taking Muggle Studies, because then Mike can help me with all the homework, but I do not know what else. Let me know what you end up taking, and I will join you in your misery._

_Chris_

Bill felt a wave of empathy, because clearly his friend was being tortured as much as he was. Somehow it made him feel better to know that he was not the only boy in Britain being thus mistreated. Misery did indeed love company. Then, he picked up his quill, and penned:

_**Chris:**_

_**Don't feel too badly. I'm locked in the same prison you are, it's just I've got a different cell, and a different warden, Mum. I'm also not allowed to do the Mike method (Merlin, that kid does not appreciate how lucky he is to come from a Muggle family that will believe that dropping a wand is a legitimate way of choosing courses). I already said I would take Divination and Arithmancy because my wand fell on them before Mum intervened, and I don't feel like crossing them out. I guess I'll take Muggle Studies, as well, although I'm not sure I have much to learn after growing up with my father. Anyway, I think Mum wants me to select at least one more class, but, if you take Divination and Arithmancy, you've got your three classes, and you're out of jail. And I just have to decide whether Ancient Runes is harder or easier than Care of Magical Creatures, then I'm free as well.**_

_**Bill**_

When he was done writing, he attached the note to the owl's foot, watched it soar off into the night, looked over toward the sink, and saw that his mum was busy doing the laundry in the next room, and inquired of his father, who was reading the newspaper, "Dad, do you think Ancient Runes is harder or easier than Care of Magical Creatures?"

Mr. Weasley set down his paper and gazed seriously at his son. "I think that would depend on the person, Bill. Every witch or wizard has his or her own unique talents. Some find Transfiguration easier than Charms, and some find Charms easier than Transfiguration, and some find Potions better than Transfiguration or Charms. Still others think Herbology is easiest."

"Yeah, but most people like Charms the best, I think, because they find it simplest," Bill pointed out. "That's what I'm asking: Do you think most people find Ancient Runes harder than Care of Magical Creatures?"

"I honestly don't know," Mr. Weasley admitted. "People like Charlie would find Care of Magical Creatures far less complicated, and would shudder at the thought of Ancient Runes, but somebody like Percy would probably enjoy Ancient Runes, but find Care of Magical Creatures more challenging."

"But what about me? Am I more of a Percy person or a Charlie person?" Bill raised his hands in exasperation. "Please say I'm more of a Charlie person than a Percy person."

"You're not like either of them, Bill. You're you, and they're them, and all of you are all unique, and none is better than another," Mr. Weasley chuckled.

"You only say that, because, as our father, you can't blatantly play favorites. But you still haven't told me whether or not Care of Magical Creatures is harder than Ancient Runes."

"And he shouldn't," snapped Mrs. Weasley, who had arrived in the kitchen, carrying a laundry basket full of Bill's Hogwarts robes. As she crossed over to the stairwell to carry his robes up to the bedroom he shared with Charlie, she continued irritably, "You have to choose for yourself, how many times do I have to tell you? This is a very important decision you're making, and it could affect your whole future. You'll not make it based on what's easiest, but rather on what interests you! And you won't rush the decision, either, young man. You'll take as much time as necessary!" Her feet were heavy as she stomped up the steps. Halfway to the first landing, she pivoted to face him. "And when you're done, finish packing your trunk!"

As she turned away again, Bill rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose, muttering mutinously, "Don't rush it, but when you've finished that, there're a million and one more things you have to do! But don't feel pressured, no!"

"Be nice," Mr. Weasley reminded him, although he was grinning.

"Whatever," mumbled Bill, "that's it, I can't take this anymore. I'm just going to sign up for them all, and she won't be able to complain about that, will she?" After establishing as much, he copied down all the courses open to him, snatched up the paper, and stormed upstairs in his mother's wake before his dad, who had opened his mouth to speak, could respond.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Bill received twelve O.W.L's, so he must have taken all twelve subjects in his third through fifth years, and, like Hermione, he probably would need a Time- Turner, so that's why he gets one in this chapter.

Reviews: Feel free to comment, and I will answer as soon as I can.

Charlie's Coming Too (Edited)

"Bill?" Charlie's tone was tentative and soft, not brash and exuberant like it usually was. "Are you awake still?"

"Charlie, if I was asleep, how in the name of Merlin am I supposed to answer that query?" Bill sighed in exasperation, because, in fact, he had been merely seconds away from being firmly ensconced in dreamland, and he resented his brother's tugging him back down to earth.

"I don't know," whispered back Charlie.

"Well, what do you want? I trust you do know that much, at least."

"What'll tomorrow be like?"

"It'll be great.," Bill promised. "We'll all go to King's Cross together, and you and I will say good-bye to the rest of the Weasley clan at Platform 9 ¾. Then, we'll board the train, and you'll find a compartment―"

Charlie interrupted him, "May I sit with you, instead?"

"Sure. I'll introduce you to Chris and Mike, and Jason, Brian, Steph, Jennifer, and Heather if they show up."

"You have so many friends there," Charlie murmured.

"You will, too, you'll see. Everyone loves Hogwarts, and you will, as well. People will love your careless, athletic attitude, especially once they see you on the Quidditch pitch. Don't worry, you'll be popular―just not quite as popular as me."

"Seriously, you've got to deflate your head, brother, before it grows to be the size of Australia." Even though he could not see the other boy in the dark, Bill could surmise that his younger sibling had raised his eyes to some unseen superior, supernatural force. "Ah, well, I suppose if they like you despite the size of your ego, I'll be fine."

"Of course you will, you prat, I've only been telling you that all night," scoffed Bill, as he heard his sibling turn over in his bed, most likely finally settling down for a night's sleep.

"I guess it's something you've got to tell yourself in order to believe it," replied the other sleepily.

"You're probably right," Bill yawned, and rolled over. Within the next five minutes, both brothers were sound asleep, and the only noise disturbing their peaceful slumber was Charlie's thunderous snoring.

As soon as Bill boarded the Hogwarts Express with Charlie in tow, Mike bustled up to him. "Hey, Bill. How's it going?" Before Bill could respond, he ordered, "Come on, you troll. Chris has already got us a compartment."

"I'm right behind you, pal." Bill pushed Charlie, who had become a block of chiseled ice, along gently. "Come on, Char. Third-years don't bite."

Taking a deep breath, Charlie trailed after Mike, and Bill followed him. After a minute, or so, they halted, and Mike threw open the door of a compartment that was in the middle of the train.

"Hey, Chris. How's it going?" Bill smiled at the boy in the compartment, as he and his brother sat down on one side and Mike joined Chris on the other.

"Fine, although the summer wasn't long enough," responded Chris.

"It never is," Mike groaned in commiseration.

"None of us ever gets as much free time as we like," smiled Bill. "But now that we're back at school, there's someone I'd like you to meet: my eleven-year-old brother, Charlie." As he completed the last sentence, he gestured at Charlie to illustrate the introduction.

"Ah, so you're Charlie." Mike beamed at the addressed. "We've heard loads about you from your older brother, you know."

"I hope some of it was good," muttered a humiliated Charlie.

"It was, don't worry," Mike reassured him.

"Yeah, we know that you're his best brother―the one who isn't a devil spawn, but still is funny, and can do a wicked imitation of your mum," from Chris.

"And we know that you're an excellent Seeker," drawled Mike, as both Weasley boys flushed to the roots of their vibrant hair.

"Shut up, you two, I never said all that," Bill snapped, "I just said he was the best brother I've got, and my favorite one."

"You still said too much as always," grumbled Charlie, scowling. Both Chris and Mike were heartily amused by this and the train ride passed quickly with lots of playful banter and small talk between the lads while they traded Chocolate Frog Cards and competed in Wizard Chess and Exploding Snap.

Bill hoped that Charlie's first ride on the Hogwarts Express was as fun-filled as his had been, because he did not want his little brother to be nervous about the Sorting or school, and he knew from experience that joking around could take the mind off the nerves.

Finally, after the sun had disappeared from the now velvet black sky, the train came to a halt at Hogsmeade station, and the boys, now dressed in their school robes, shoved the last of the sweets into their pockets, and added themselves to the horde of beings now thronging the corridor. After a few minutes of pushing and shoving, Bill, Charlie, Chris, and Mike hopped off the train, and onto the platform.

"Right, you've got to leave us now, because first-years approach the castle in a different way than everyone else does," Bill explained, turning to the nervous-looking Charlie. "Hagrid will be coming to pick up you and the other newcomers any second now."

As soon as the last word had sailed from his mouth, a husky voice shouted from the far end of the platform, "First-years, this way! Over here, first-years."

Waving, Charlie spun on his heel, and fought to create a path over to the distant corner of the platform in order to join the rest of the first-years congregating around the gamekeeper, as Bill, Chris, and Mike wended their way over to the waiting stagecoaches that would bustle them up to Hogwarts.

"Weasley!" A voice reverberated through the entrance hall, and, shocked, Bill pivoted to see Professor McGonagall calling to him over the heads of the hundreds of Hogwarts pupils fighting their way through the entrance hall into the Great Hall.

Wondering what transgression he could possibly be guilty of when he had been in the school for scarcely a handful of seconds, Bill battled the crowd, an ordeal complicated by the fact that he was traveling in the opposite direction of everyone else, trying to reach her. As he did so, he prayed silently and feverishly that she would not detain him for too long, because he wanted to witness Charlie's Sorting, although he was positively certain that the other boy would be made a Gryffindor just like every other Weasley in the history of civilization.

Apparently, he was not able to conceal his bewilderment, or his anxiety, for Professor McGonagall informed him dryly as he arrived by her side, "There's no cause to look as though your favorite owl has died, Weasley―I just wish to have a quick word with you about your course schedule." Raising her voice again to carry over the hustling multitude of students, she added, "Hurry along there, Brown, and O'Connor."

When she was satisfied that Chris and Mike had ceased holding up the traffic in the entrance hall, she ushered Bill away from the chattering teenagers, across the hall, up the massive marble staircase, and along a corridor full of portraits, who were all yammering to each other.

Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, blazing, and welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned imperiously for Bill to seat himself. When he had done so in the hard, stiff wooden chair she indicated, she settled herself behind her oak desk, paused for a moment, then stated, "You've chosen a rather demanding schedule for yourself, Weasley."

"Yes, Professor," Bill responded dutifully, wondering where in the world she was headed with this.

"There's nothing wrong with that, of course, except for the fact that, strictly speaking, there is not enough time in the day for you to attend all the subjects you want to take. Fortunately, you're not the first person who has desired to take all the courses Hogwarts had to offer. As such, the Ministry has devised a plan to deal with such eventualities. That is, a student that indicates an interest in taking all the available classes will be given a Time-Turner for the sole and express purpose of attending his or her classes, if his or her Head of House thinks that he or she is mature enough to handle the danger and the responsibility. Do you understand what I'm saying, Weasley?"

"I think so, Professor." Bill nodded. "You're going to provide me with a Time-Turner, so I can attend all my lessons, and I'm not to use it for any other purpose besides going to classes."

"Exactly." She was silent for a moment, her lips pursed, before she went on, "Weasley, I must impress upon you just how dangerous a Time-Turner is. Awful things have happened to witches and wizards that have meddled with time, which is why nobody is allowed to use a Time-Turner without Ministry authorization, and why I had to write numerous letters expounding upon what a model student you are, and how you'd never use a Timer-Turner for anything except your studies. Many magicians have ended up killing their past or future selves."

"Why?" frowned Bill.

Professor McGonagall heaved an impatient sigh. "Weasley, what would you think if you weren't looking in a mirror or anything else reflective, and you saw yourself?"

"I'd think Charlie must have finally had a growth spurt."

"Be serious," Professor McGonagall barked.

"I was, Professor, but I suppose if I really knew it wasn't Charlie or one of my many delightful siblings, I would assume that my mind had finally bowed to the inevitable and gone around the twist, and, in such a state, there might be no accounting for what I might do."

"Better," Professor McGonagall educated him crisply. "Now that you understand the danger of the Time-Turner I'm about to entrust to you, I want you to promise me that you will tell nobody, not even Brown, O'Connor, or your brother about it."

"I promise," replied Bill earnestly.

"Very well. Bear in mind everything that you and I have said this evening." She placed a sparkling hourglass tied to a steel chain in his right hand, and he hung it around his neck, burying it under his robes. "When you want to go back an hour, give it one turn. Two turns for two hours, and three turns for three hours…Do you see where I'm going with this, Weasley?"

"Yes, I give the Time-Turner a turn for every hour I wish to go back in time," Bill answered.

"Good, that's everything, then." She crossed over to her door and held it open for him. "Come on, if we hurry, you might not miss your brother's Sorting."

It turned out that she was correct in such as assessment, for as they entered the Great Hall, Professor Flitwick called in his squeaky little voice, "Weasley, Charles." Bill watched a trembling Charlie lurch forward, place the Sorting Hat on his head, so that it fell over his eyes, and sit on the stool.

A moment later, the Hat screamed, "Gryffindor" as Bill sensed it would, and he cheered and clapped with the rest of his House, as both he and Charlie converged on the Gryffindor table from opposite ends of the Hall, smiling at each other.

Spotting Mike and Chris, Bill seated himself in the seat Mike and Chris had been saving for him in the middle of the table, and Charlie plopped down beside a boy he apparently had met on the ride across the lake. "What in the name of Merlin was that all about?" Chris demanded, as Bill joined him and Mike.

"Yeah, what in the world did McGonagall want with you?" added Mike. "What did you do so early in the term?"

"Nothing," answered Bill shortly.

"Be honest. We know McGonagall only wants to 'have a word' with someone if they've shattered one of our lovely Hogwarts rules to smithereens," Mike argued.

"You don't have to lie to us, and you certainly don't have to be ashamed that you set Snape's greasy hair on fire," Chris completed the thought.

Bill clutched his heart, as if he had just received a mortal wound in that region. "You're killing me, mates. Surely you know that I'm a model citizen, and as such, I would never dream of breaking the rules of our esteemed institution, unlike you rogues, and, therefore, I would never set fire to Snape's mop of grease―hair, I mean." More thoughtfully, he mused as the last girl, Dawn Zimmerman, was made a Ravenclaw, Professsor Flitwick carried off the Hat and stool, and the Ravenclaws applauded, "Although I might be able to make such a suggestion to Fred and George."

"Pity I won't be able to see them follow through," chuckled Chris.

"You might if you don't find a brain soon," Mike warned, snatching a chicken leg from one of the golden platters that had just filled itself magically with food prepared by the house-elves.

"And you should talk seeing as you're the one who was given a rain check when brains were being handed out because you arrived to late," retorted Chris.

Feeling as if he were hearing an argument at the Burrow, Bill sighed, and scolded in a mock-serious tone as he gnawed on the remains of his chicken bone, "Now, now, boys, you know brains aren't everything, in fact in both of your cases, they're nothing."

"Right back at you," Chris and Mike chanted at the same time, the former continuing, "Tell us what McGonagall wanted with you before I die of curiosity."

"If you're planning to die of curiosity, I ought not to tell you," teased Bill, and Chris chucked a biscuit at his head. Ducking the biscuit, he explained, "McGonagall just wanted make sure I knew how nasty taking all the courses offered would be." As the words escaped his mouth, he bowed his head, so that his companions would not see his expression, because he did not enjoy lying to his friends for the first time, even if the lie was only one of omission.

"Oh, well, that's boring," Chris mumbled through a mouthful of salad.

"But she has a point doesn't she? Twelve classes can't be fun," reasoned Mike.

"One class can't be fun," Chris smirked, "but you'd be a damned fool if you needed her to tell you that."

"She probably felt obligated to, because then, if I fail them all, it's not her fault, but rather mine," shrugged Bill.


	13. Chapter 13

Defense Against the Dark Arts and Quidditch Don't Mix (Edited)

Everyone at Hogwarts was aware that the Defense Against the Dark Arts post was jinxed, meaning that no professor in who-knows-how-long had been capable of remaining in office for more than a year. Last year Professor Barnaby, an absent-minded old man, had accidentally walked out a window after administering the final exams to the first-years, something most of the Hogwarts pupils still found highly amusing, and the year before last, Professor Manderlin, who had been fairly competent, had quit because she wanted a more active job warding off vampires somewhere in Southeast Asia. And now, thirteen-year-old Bill Weasley reflected sullenly, they were stuck with by far the worst teacher ever to curse the post: Professor Bini, a man with a hollow smile etched constantly on his face who was prone to voicing prejudiced views against all non-purebloods, and who was convinced that providing inaccurate information to students by the bucket load was an adequate manner of instruction.

This last assessment was hammered into his unwilling head at dinner one night in late September, when his brother Charlie plopped down next to him on the bench. About to tell his sibling to leave him alone so he could study for the Charms, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy tests he had the next day, he changed his mind when he saw the furious expression on Charlie's usually cheery face, and recognized that the other boy needed to vent, and he had chosen to seek out Bill, instead of one of his many new friends.

"What's up, Char?" he asked, instead, concerned. "I thought you'd memorized Hogwarts by now."

"I have," replied Charlie sulkily, "but that won't help me now, because I'm not upset because I got lost."

"Well, then, what is it? What's wrong?" his older brother persisted. "It can't be schoolwork that's eating you. I mean, I'll bet I've tons more homework than you do…" To illustrate his point, he gestured irritably at his _Standard Books of Spells_ _Grade 3_, _Numerology and Gramatica_, and _Ancient Runes Made Easy_ textbooks. At the moment, he felt a particular hostility toward the last tome, because Ancient Runes was not a subject that could be made easy, or, if it could, the author of that book had not really had any interest in doing so because it only served to make the subject still more complicated, which was entirely unnecessary.

Too preoccupied with his own pain, Charlie was utterly unsympathetic to his plight. "I'll remind you that you chose to take twelve subjects last Easter break, so you deserve this rigorous schedule. I, on the other hand…"

"Excuse me," Bill interrupted. "I only chose to take all twelve subjects because I left the task of selecting what courses I wanted to take until the last possible moment, and I couldn't very well just choose randomly, could I?"

"It's what I would've done," scowled Charlie. "And I wouldn't even have to, because I already know that I'm taking Care of Magical Creatures, and I don't care what else, as long as I get to drop Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"You can't not until you're sixth year at any rate―it said so in the pamphlet McGonagall gave us so we could choose our third-year schedules over the Easter holidays. Anyway, I understand not wanting to take Potions because Snape's a―" Bill called Snape something he would not have dared to around his mother― "but what do you have against Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charlie? I mean, yeah, Professor Bini's verbosity is exceeded only by his stupidity, and Professor Barnaby was so absentminded that he probably needed to wrap his lunch in a map, but Professor Manderlin was decent enough, and I reckon she knew what she was talking about…"

"And every year we get a new teacher in it, so you only have to put up with them for a year," continued Charlie, sensing where Bill was going with this and heading him off, "and like Mum would say, 'It's a very important subject, Charles.'"

Bill had to laugh at his sibling's screwed up face and uncanny imitation of their mother's voice. After a moment, he recovered enough to respond, "If you know all this, then why'd you say what you did?"

"Because I'm feeling very anti Professor Bini, and, therefore, anti Defense Against the Dark Arts at the moment," explained Charlie. He did not seem to feel compelled to expound upon this notion, and eventually, his comrade was forced to press:

"Are you going to share why you feel that way, or can I get back to studying now?" So that Charlie would realize he was serious, Bill opened _Ancient Runes Made Easy _and flipped to the right chapter, burying his nose in it once more.

"Listen to me." Charlie slapped the textbook away from his brother's face, so their eyes met again.

"I wasn't aware you were talking," observed Bill dryly.

"Yeah, well, now I am," Charlie glowered. "I'm feeling even more anti-Bini than usual at the moment because I've got detention on Friday evening at six o'clock with McGonagall."

"What?" A spoonful of stew halted its progress midway to Bill's mouth, which was agape as though he were attempting to catch flies. "Say it slower, and in English, if you don't mind."

"You heard me." Charlie focused on a recalcitrant piece of broccoli that was difficult to stab and that he had no real interest in consuming. "I've landed myself in detention. With McGonagall."

"You're in detention on Friday night at six o'clock," echoed Bill numbly, his brother's tone finally having gotten through to him.

"Yes, that's what I said, or was I speaking Gobbledegook without being aware of it?" Charlie snorted.

Bill ignored this. "But Quidditch trails are at Friday at six!"

"I know," the other noted grimly.

"And you need to try out. Gryffindor needs you, because last year our team sucked, and it was the same the year before." An idea struck Bill suddenly. "Go to McGonagall. Ask her to change the night, because you want to try out, and you're good, you're very good. She wants Gryffindor to win, I can tell."

"You try. I think she likes you—that is to say, she likes you better than she likes me, probably because you've managed to go more than two years here without getting in detention, and I can't even last a month without getting into trouble, but even if you do talk to her, I wouldn't get your hopes up too much, because she seems big on being strict and making sure everyone follows the rules. Kind of witch Mum likes."

"Hey, the worst risk is the one you don't take." Bill shrugged.

Charlie held up his glass of pumpkin juice. "Cheers." The two of them banged goblets and sipped.

Silence stretched between them, as companionable as always, before Bill broke it a moment later. "If I'm going to try to convince her to permit you to attend the Quidditch try-outs I need to know what exactly you did, Charlie."

"Alright, well, it goes something like this," began Charlie. "Defense Against the Dark Arts began as usual, which is to say with Professor Bini shooting off nine million incorrect facts a minute. Normally, I would, like the rest of the student body, be willing to scribble down his wrong information, so I could incorporate it in an essay of his at some later date, but today he had to make Dark creatures the subject of his lesson, and—well, I couldn't resist mumbling to Matt Robins and Dan Bell that everyone with an IQ that doesn't start with a bloody decimal point knows that kappas are not found in Mexico."

"You're right," conceded Bill, "everybody knows kappas are a type of Japanese water demon. Ah, well, I knew that he should've asked for a brain to go when they were handing them out..."

"They wouldn't have given one to him, even if he had, because they only give them to people that will use them." Charlie waved a dismissive hand, as Bill smirked. "Anyway, unfortunately the imbecile saw me mutter to them, but he didn't hear what I said, so he just told me to raise my hand if I had anything to contribute to the class. All would probably have been fine if he hadn't chosen to announce that kappas are harmless..."

"What the hell was he judging against― a female dragon?" Bill demanded incredulously.

"Well, we never got to learn that because I mumbled to Dan and Matt that he was wrong again, and Bini caught me, and told me to tell the class about kappas."

"I can guess what happened," groaned Bill, resting his head in the palms of his hands. "You contradicted him in public."

"Yes," Charlie admitted, before amending defensively, "but I wasn't wrong, and I shouldn't have gotten in trouble for speaking the truth!"

"Maybe you should learn how to control your temper, though," suggested Bill gently.

His brother ignored this, swallowed some stew, and plunged on, "But I didn't even get detention then. He just told me to be quiet, and he announced that he was sorry to contradict me, but that everything I'd said was wrong. As if! It was he that was wrong on every count!"

"I know, I know." Bill attempted to quiet the other as he ate his own soup, because a handful of nearby students were eyeing them curiously, and he liked to be stared at only if someone was admiring him.

"Everything might have been fine if Matt hadn't contradicted Bini, and then he, Dan, Bini, and I all got into this horrible spat, and Bini didn't know how to handle it, because he's got a bloody wood carving where the rest of us have got our brains, so when the bell finally rang, he dragged us all off to see McGonagall..."

"And she put you in detention, because you could hardly tell her that the teacher was wrong," Bill finished, surmising where this was headed.

"Exactly, especially not in front of the aforesaid teacher. I'm tactless, but I'm not that tactless."

"And you're stupid, but you're not as stupid as Bini," teased Bill.

"That's not saying much, seeing as I've met garden plants with greater cognitive abilities than that man's got," scoffed Charlie.

"I know, that's why I felt safe claiming what I did." He ducked Charlie's swipe at him, as they rose in unison, dinners done. As they departed the Great Hall for the common room, he added, "I have Transfiguration tomorrow before dinner. I'll speak to McGonagall then."

"Best of luck."

"Thanks."

"You'll need it."

"I know."

The next evening when the bell rang ending Transfiguration lesson, which had been a lengthy lecture about Animagi, Bill ordered Chris, Mike, Jennifer, Stephanie, and Heather Walsh, his new girlfriend, to go down to dinner without him, because he would join them in a few minutes, and then made his way to the front of the classroom. For a few seconds, he stood like a statue by Professor McGonagall's desk, not sure how to begin. After a moment, she looked up from the essays she had collected from them at the outset of the lesson, which she had been organizing into a pile for grading. "Yes, Weasley, what is it?"

"May I ask you a question, Professor?"

"About the lesson, I presume."

"Not exactly, Professor." Unable to elaborate, Bill just bit his lip. Why did he always lose his nerve when the time came to follow through on his plans? Why did everything sound so brilliant in his head, but when he wanted to say the words they seemed foolish, and would not even come out of his throat?

She eyed him piercingly over her spectacles, but nodded her head. "Very well, Weasley. Ask anyway. What is it you want to know?"

"The Gryffindor Quidditch trials are on Friday evening at six."

"Yes, I know that, and that is not a question," she replied crisply.

"Charlie wants to try-out, Professor," he added, ignoring this.

He suspected that she was only half listening, because she responded distractedly, as she commenced marking the papers before her, "He should see Hooper, then, as he's the Captain of the team, not me."

"But Charlie's in detention on Friday night at six, Professor," Bill reminded her.

"Well, then he can't try out, can he?" Professor McGonagall answered briskly, realizing who he was talking about at last, because she had finished grading the paper, and was focusing entirely on the teenaged boy before her now.

"Not unless you change the night or time of his detention, Professor."

"Why would I make an exception for him, Mr. Weasley?" Professor McGonagall's eyebrows were arched like question marks, which, in Bill's experience, was never an auspicious omen.

"You should make an exception for him, Professor, because he's a good Quidditch player, and an excellent Seeeker," insisted Bill passionately. "Honestly, he's loads better than anyone who's going to try out on Friday. With him, we might stand a chance of winning the Cup. I mean, the rest of the team is nothing to cheer about, not that I don't support them, because of course I do. It's just they're nothing special, and Charlie is…" He recognized the fact that he was babbling, and snapped his mouth shut.

Her eyes narrowed, Professor McGonagall sighed, glanced around the classroom to ascertain that it was indeed empty save for them, and then established in a quieter voice than was typical with her, "For your information, I care about Gryffindor winning as much as you do, as hard as it might be for you to believe it. However, I think that your kinship might be clouding your judgment. Surely, you are aware of the fact that it's been about a century since a first-year made the team…"

"Charlie's good enough, Professor, and I don't let kinship blind me," Bill protested, faintly annoyed at the last charge. He loved his brother, but he would not go to this bother if he was not completely convinced that the other boy had tremendous potential. There were limits to his otherwise endless love. "I can tell you that Percy can hardly determine one end of a broomstick from the other, nonetheless fly it, and that Fred and George will probably make decent Beaters, if they put effort into it, but Charlie's different. He's a natural, I swear. Air's his element, like Percy's is a bookshelf."

"I see, then he can try out next year, and, if he's as good as you claim, we'll be happy to have him," Professor McGonagall ruled firmly, "because, even if what you say is true, I can hardly be seen making such an exception just to put out a Quidditch team. It would be most unfair, and, if your brother misses something he wants to do it will teach him not to act up like that in class again. Now, it's about time you went down for dinner, Weasley. No doubt your friends will be wondering where you are, and, I'm sure you have homework you want to get done."

After being raised by his mother, Bill recognized when a woman's mind was made up, and he gave up. "Yes, Professor." He was at the door when an idea crossed his mind, and he added on pure inspiration, "But, you know, Professor, that, while my brother was imprudent to behave like he did, he wasn't wrong."

"What on earth are you talking about now, Weasley?" snapped Professor McGonagall.

"Well, I think you'll find that kappas are not Mexican like Bini―I mean, Professor Bini―told his first-years. In fact, I believe they are Japanese water demons like my little brother said."

"I see." Frowning, Professor McGonagall waved a hand in dismissal, although Bill suspected that it was not he that had upset her. His hypothesis was validated as he distinctly heard her mumbling something about wanting to see Professor Dumbledore at once, but he was busy at the Ministry.

On his way to join Chris, Mike, Jennifer, Stephanie, and Heather for a potato casserole supper, Bill tapped his brother on the shoulder as he passed, and Charlie whirled about to face him. "Hey, Bill. What's up?"

"I failed, sorry about it," Bill replied heavily, and Charlie inferred instantly what he was talking about.

"I thought you might," answered Charlie, shrugging. "There'll be other years."

"Yeah," his sibling grinned. "Six others, according to my mathematical calculations. It's a pity I won't be there to witness them all, though."

"But you'll be there in spirit."

"Of course, that goes without saying, idiot. Well, see you around."

"Right back at you, pal." As his sibling walked away to join his friends, Charlie turned back to his meal and resumed his conversation with Matt and Dan, his new companions at Hogwarts.

Bill had always known that his younger brother Charlie had a happy-go-lucky nature, but he still could not have anticipated that Charlie would return from his Friday night detention with a broad smile upon his features. In fact, he had assumed that the exact opposite would be the case, but, as if the fates wanted to prove him wrong, Charlie arrived back in the common room after his detention looking like a child at his first carnival.

"Bill!" he exclaimed at seven o'clock when he returned from detention, running up to his sibling, who was playing Exploding Snap with Chris, Mike, Brian, and Jason. "You won't believe what I did in detention!"

"Lines?" guessed Bill.

"Wrong! I didn't serve my punishment with McGonagall at all. She handed me over to Hagrid, and he had me help him feed some flobberworms he's got, and he said I could stop by anytime I wanted and visit him and his creatures…and from what he told me, he's got some really interesting ones!"

Gazing at Charlie's excited expression, Bill debated inwardly whether or not to inform his sibling that what Hagrid termed "interesting creatures" normal people would term "lethal monsters to be avoided at all costs." Like a majority of Gryffindors, he was fond of the gamekeeper, but still he did not want to get set on fire, or be eaten, and he really did not want such a thing to happen to Charlie, no matter how annoying he could be at times. In the end, he was saved the obligation of initiating the other boy into such mysteries by Mike, who informed him, "That's cool. You better be careful, though, because Hagrid―well, he's tougher than most people, given the fact that he's about six feet taller than the average person―and so his idea of 'interesting' is not like ours."

"Yeah, his idea of 'interesting' is our idea of 'probably deadly,'" confirmed Chris.

"Charlie likes dangerous stuff, though, don't you, Char?" Bill smiled at the addressed fondly, who returned the warm regard. More seriously, he concluded, "I'm not going to stop you from going, because I'm glad that you've found someone who shares your interest in magical creatures. Still, I want you to be careful around any creatures that he introduces you to."

"You're not my parent, Bill." Charlie's eyes were dangerous slits.

"Fair enough, but I still want your promise that you'll be careful, as a friend, as a brother."

"Fine, I promise, although there's no need to worry. There's nothing out there that Hagrid and I can't handle," Charlie grumbled, not understanding his sibling's persistence.

"Good, and I'm glad that your detention wasn't a nightmare."

Charlie's beam was etched in place once more. "Me too. I thought I'd be lucky if I got just lines, I mean McGonagall doesn't strike me as the kindest witch ever…"

"No, she's not particularly kind, but I think she cares in a detached kind of way, but she doesn't want us to figure it out," hedged Bill thoughtfully. "However, I bet she intended it as a punishment, anyhow, you know, because most people would rather do lines or something than deal with Hagrid's beasts. I, for one, know I would."

"Same here," from Chris, Mike, Jason, and Brian. "But it's better Hagrid than Snape."

"Only thing worse than detention with Snape is expulsion," Bill commented sagely.

"What would you know about it?" Charlie rolled his eyes. "You've never been in detention in all your years here, remember?"

"Of course I do, I'm the only Gryffindor third-year that can make that claim, and I'm proud of it." It was Bill's year-mates' turn to raise their eyes to the heavens when Bill established as much. "But I hear people talk, and the things Snape puts students to in detention are horrible."

"Tell me about it, I had to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads," groaned Mike, looking as though the memory still pained him. "It took me an hour to figure out how to do a Scouring Charm to get all that gook out of my fingernails. Definitely should not have told the man to slit his wrists to lower his blood pressure even if he did tell me I was cruelly depriving my hometown of an idiot, which was totally out of line…"

"I know," Chris agreed empathetically. "Your potion wasn't even that bad, and plenty of Slytherins had done a worse job. However, you ought to be eternally grateful that you didn't have to pickle rats' brains like I did, and all because I informed him that his mind wasn't so much twisted as terribly sprained after he told me that, based on my potions work, I had the mental caliber of an aardvark."

Charlie shuddered. "I'll control my tongue better in lessons from now on. I won't give Bini anymore cheek, because, if I get into the habit, I might sass Snape. Merlin knows, I wouldn't need much temptation to do so."

"Speaking of Bini, did you hear the news about our beloved Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Jason inquired, glancing about at his fellows.

"No, did he converse with a particularly insightful bit of plankton recently?" quipped Jason's best friend Brian to gales of laughter from the other boys.

"He might have," Jason responded with complete seriousness, "but that's not what I'm talking about. A sixth year told me that Dumbledore's sacked Bini, because somebody's finally gotten up the nerve to tell him that Bini's so dumb that if one of his thoughts died, the other would die of loneliness, and that he was filling our already fuller-than-his minds with incorrect information."

"Who's going to take his place?" Brian demanded, asking the question on everyone's mind.

"Some old friend of Dumebledore's Doge, or something like that. But only for a year, than he's going back into retirement."

"Well, it's always only for a year, isn't it?" reasoned Bill. "After all, there's a hex on the job."

"Dumbledore says there isn't," Chris reminded him.

"Yeah, but that's only because he can't admit there is," Bill dismissed this objection instantly. "He wouldn't be able to hire anyone if he said to their faces it was cursed. I mean, the rumors that surround it are scary enough."

"That's right," affirmed Mike. "Like, half the professors who have taken the job have died, I've heard. Frankly, Professor Bini was lucky just to be sacked."

"He didn't even fall out the window like Barnaby did in our first-year," laughed Bill, and everyone joined him.


	14. Chapter 14

Hogsmeade (Edited)

A week before Halloween in Bill's third year, Professor McGonagall detained her Gryffindor students after assigning them a lengthy essay on the art of recognizing Animagi, to announce, "As you're all in my House―"

"Unfortunately," mumbled Brian to Jason in the row in front of Bill, Chris, and Mike, prompting Jason, Chris, Mike, and Bill to snigger, and Professor McGonagall to glare icily at them all because of the disruption they were causing, although, luckily, she had not heard the jest.

"You should hand in your permission forms to go into Hogsmeade to me before Halloween. If you don't return a form to me, you won't be permitted to visit Hogsmeade, you know, so don't forget. Well, that's all. You may go. See me if you have any questions."

Grinning in anticipation of their first visit to Hogsmeade, Bill, Chris, and Mike finished packing their textbooks and parchments into their satchels, swung their bags over their shoulders, and followed the masses out of the Transfiguration classroom, into the crowded corridor loaded with chattering teenagers, down several stairwells, and into the Great Hall for dinner.

"Do you know much about Hogsmeade?" Mike asked Bill and Chris as they all plopped down and tossed shepherd's pie onto their platters.

"Nah, I only asked my parents to sign the form, and then I forgot about it until now, that is," Chris shrugged.

"Same here," remarked Bill, as Mike turned his focus to him, "although I read that it's the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain."

"Yeah, I think it is, but I remember hearing my dad talking about Honeydukes now that I consider the matter." Chris waved a hand to dismiss Bill's comment as boring, the way he typically did when Bill referenced any statistic or piece of data.

"Honeydukes?" Bill and Mike repeated in unison.

"A sweetshop, where, from Dad's stories, they've got everything imaginable and everything that isn't. Pepper Imps so strong they make your mouth really smoke, gigantic Chocoballs stuffed like a turkey with strawberry mousse and clotted cream, and delicious sugar quills that look so real that you can suck them in class as long as you act like you're contemplating what to scribble down next―"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't mind purchasing a couple of those, if I could," agreed Bill, who was losing interest in his supper because of his friend's mouth-watering description of the delicacies available at Honeydukes, and who, therefore, was keen to change the topic to something more conducive to consuming a decent dinner. "However, I reckon we should look at some of the other sites while we're there, too."

"What other sites?" pressed Mike. "And I wouldn't mind spending most of Halloween at Honeydukes stocking up on candy, myself."

"Neither would I," Chris seconded.

"I remember reading in Sites of Historical Sorcery that the inn in Hogsmeade was the headquarters of the 1612 goblin rebellion―" Bill began, deciding to address Mike's question, and ignore Chris' comment.

At this, Chris emitted a heavy sigh, and interrupted, "What is it with you and goblin rebellions? I personally find them mind-numbingly boring in the extreme."

"Yeah, they're so boring that they make me consider taking up art just so I can enjoy watching the paint dry, instead of studying them," Mike muttered.

"They make me want to cut myself just so I can watch a scab form," was Chris' still more insightful contribution.

"You two only think goblin rebellions are dull, because you've only ever heard Binns yammer on about them, but when you really dig into the matter on your own, you'll actually find it quite fascinating, I'm sure, just as I did," answered Bill calmly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "Anyway, if you don't want to visit the inn, we don't have to, of course, it was merely a suggestion."

"That's great, because I'm not too excited about seeing it," chorused his two companions.

"It's your loss, as it's you that will remain eternally ignorant of goblin rebellions, not me." Bill smiled to remove any offense from the words, then continued, "I also think the Shrieking Shack, which is like the most severely haunted building in Britain, might be worth a look."

"Now you're talking sense," Chris educated him, beaming, and displaying a mouth full of partially chewed shepherd's pie. "We'll go see that after we visit Honeydukes and buy ourselves tons of candy."

"I like the way you think." Bill raised his glass of pumpkin juice in a toast. Then, he whirled around to face Mike, who was beside him. "Well, is that okay by you?"

"The Shrieking Shack is haunted, you say, like a haunted house?" demanded the addressed.

"Yep, except it's a shack," Chris informed him, but Mike's confusion, far from being alleviated, seemed to increase.

"A real haunted house?"

"Why, yes, of course, what else would it be?" This time it was Bill that replied, frowning in bemusement, just as Chris was.

"A fake one like Muggles have around Halloween, of course! You know, fake ones to raise money for school proms, and charity and community organizations, and all that rubbish!" Mike exclaimed, as though this were as obvious as the fact that one and one equaled two. "A normal building full of people dressed up as witches and ghouls jumping out, and trying to scare you while lights flicker to disorient you, and fake spider webs hang from the ceiling. That sort of thing."

"Muggles do that?" Bill stared at Mike in astonishment. At the other's nod, he added, shaking his head, "I've got to remember to tell Dad that. He's fascinated by that sort of thing."

"People pay for that kind of experience?" Chris' eyebrows rose.

"Yes. Don't you have to pay to get into the Shrieking Shack?" Mike responded, sounding faintly irritated with their thick-headedness, just like the other two lads were vexed with his ignorance of their world.

"No, it would have said so in Sites of Historical Sorcery if that were indeed the case," Bill educated him. "It's free entertainment, which is the best kind of entertainment. If you're a Weasley, anyway, which you both aren't, so you two can delight in expensive pastimes."

Chris crossed his arms in a parody of outraged indignation. "I'm highly offended by that last remark. I thought we were brothers in everything save blood."

"Me too." Mike's arms folded over themselves as well.

"Right, we're brothers in everything except blood, so you have to be as cheap as my family is I forgot, sorry," Bill smirked.

"I don't see why you can't become as unthrifty as my family is, instead," pouted Chris.

"I'll try if it'll make you happy, for I'd do anything for my brother in everything minus blood," teased Bill, shoveling more pie into his mouth as he expressed as much.

Chris returned his broad grin, and confessed, "It matters not to me, truly. I could care less if you choose to remain as thrifty as always, because we'll be best friends no matter what." He glanced significantly at his two comrades, and they all chanted as one voice, "Best friends forever."

Three pairs of hands slapped on top of each other on the table for a moment, then the pile of limbs broke up. "No matter what happens, we'll be friends," Mike vowed, as the three of them resumed eating. "We'll be just like this when we're thirty, I swear."

"I don't know about that," Chris demurred seriously. "Personally, I hope to not be petrified of McGonagall and Snape when I'm thirty."

"I hope to have graduated from Hogwarts and gotten a job, myself," added Bill.

Mike glowered at the pair of them, asperity in his eyes. "You know perfectly well what I meant."

Finally, after a week of all the third-years in the school babbling loudly and excitedly about the fun they were going to have in Hogsmeade at Honeydukes, a jokeshop called Zonko's, the pub called the Three Broomsticks, and the scare they would get when they visited the Shrieking Shack, and being mocked by the upperclassmen for their eagerness, Halloween morning arrived. As anxious as any of his year-mates to explore Hogsmeade, Bill awoke considerably earlier than he typically would have done, nor was he alone in this endeavor, for Chris, Mike, and their dormitory companions, Jason and Brian, all arose as early as he did. The five of them dressed at lightning speed, and then clattered down the spiral stone staircase into the common room, where Steph, Jennifer, and Heather were already exiting through the portrait of the Fat Lady. Trailing behind the three girls, Bill, Brian, Chris, Jason, and Mike arrived in the Great Hall, where they had difficulty consuming their buttered toast and sugared grapefruit, because all they wanted was to go to Hogsmeade, and buy barrels of candy at Honeydukes.

After half an hour of arduous effort, the five of them all managed to choke down a slice of toast and half a grapefruit, and hurried into the entrance hall, where their progress was halted almost immediately by a long line of students stretching from the front of the doors that led out into the grounds all the way back to the entrance into the Great Hall. Almost without thinking, Brian and Jason stepped back from the other three, and started to chatter amongst themselves, as best friends are wont to do when faced with a tedious waiting period.

"What's going on? Why isn't anyone moving, for Merlin's sake?" demanded Chris impatiently with such volume that surely everyone in the entrance hall heard.

Indeed, the fourth-year girl standing before them, who had been conversing with a friend of hers, whirled about to face him. "The blasted idiot 'caretaker' Filch is blocking the exit, checking off everybody's name on his insanely long list of students that have permission to visit Hogsemade, making sure that nobody who doesn't have permission to do so sneaks out to have fun, which, of course, as always, is his greater fear, that someone somewhere might be having fun," she informed him, then reverted back to her former exchange with the girl next to her.

At this gem, Chris seemed more irritable than ever. "Joys abound," he griped, "by the time Filch is through inspecting every one of us to his satisfaction, if in fact he can ever be satisfied, which I highly doubt, it'll be time for us to return to Hogwarts."

"I'm sure it won't be that bad," Bill attempted to reassure him, although he could not completely restrain a smile at his friend's exaggeration.

"Yeah, I'm sure we'll have about five minutes or so in Hogsmeade before we've got to turn back," commented Mike on a laugh.

However, despite Chris and Mike's dire predictions, the queue moved reasonably quickly, and ten minutes later, they were honored to be standing in front of Filch, whose bulging eyes were lit with the blazing fire of suspicion as always, and whose jowls were trembling in the hope of catching and curtailing some mischief. "Name?" he snarled at Chris.

"Christopher Brown."

Purposefully extending the duration of a relatively basic task, Filch scanned over his endless piece of parchment until he found the B's, and from there located Chris' name. "Very well, you may go, and good riddance I say. Now, let's see about your bratty little friends, shall we?" Without waiting for a reply, Filch focused his glare upon Mike, instead. "Name?"

"Michael O'Connor."

Once he had gone through an extensive process like Chris', Mike was given the clear, and Filch snapped at Bill, "Name?"

"William Weasley."

"Weasley, Weasley," mumbled Filch, bulbous eyes running over his kilometer long list. "Ah, here we go," he rumbled at last. "Well, all of you may go. Have a nice trip, see you next fall."

Wrinkling their noses and rolling their eyes at one another, Bill, Chris, and Mike stepped out of the double doors, and out onto the Hogwarts grounds. As they wended their way down the country dirt lane to Hogsmeade, which was lined with bunches of Hogwarts pupils traveling toward the village, Mike grumbled rebelliously, "I can't believe that man is actually convinced he's bloody hilarious."

"Tell me about it, he harbors under the delusion that 'Have a nice trip, see you next fall' is funny, when it's such a cliché that all it serves as is a waste of breath," Chris agreed, his asperity toward the caretaker apparent in his voice.

"And his use of the expression didn't even make sense. Everyone whose brain warranty has run out fifty years ago knows it's supposed to be employed after someone trips and falls when the speaker can't think of anything better to say, but feels compelled to be somewhat insulting," joined in Bill.

The trip to Hogsmeade was spent in delightful abusing of Filch, however, the unpleasant Hogwarts caretaker was wiped from their minds as they reached the village, and all three of their mouths fell open in shock as their eyes widened in surprise. Dazed by all the displays, they fought their way through the hordes of Hogwarts students toward Honeydukes, which was teeming with yet more pupils, who were all looking around at the shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking and mouth-watering treats imaginable.

As Bill glanced about the shop, he spotted chunks of creamy nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees, chocolates in every flavor in the world stacked in neat rows, massive kegs of Every Flavor Beans and Fizzing Whizbees, which, if the sign advertizing them was accurate, were sherbet balls that made whoever ate them levitate. Along the next wall, Bill noted, were the "Special Effects", although the store hardly needed more. Here were Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, which purported to fill a room with bluebell colored bubbles that endured for several days, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps that promised to make the eater breathe fire, Ice Mice that caused whoever ate them to have squeaking teeth, peppermint creams shaped like toads, which supposedly hopped in the stomach, fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.

After stocking up on the candy, Bill, Chris, and Mike exited Honeydukes, returning to the bustling Hogsmeade street. "Where to now?" Bill asked, facing the other two.

"Let's go to the Shrieking Shack first," suggested Chris, "because then if it is a bit― a bit― nerve-racking we can go to the Three Broomsticks and purchase some butterbeer, which is rumored to be excellent."

"Fair enough," agreed Bill.

"Fine by me," assented Mike, and they walked past the Three Broomsticks, until they were outside the settlement, and climbed a slope that had the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted building in Britain, on its crest. As they made their way up the hill, a gang of screaming Hufflepuffs followed by a knot of wailing Slytherins, whom Bill, Mike, and Chris all glared at, charged past them, racing in the opposite direction, prompting Bill to eye the Shrieking Shack with the beginnings of respect, because he knew that it was this house that had set his peers into flight.

He realized that it nested rather menacingly a little above the village, like a malignant hawk, and, even in daylight, there was something creepy and disconcerting about it. This impression was further cemented in his mind when they arrived on what was supposed to be the front lawn, and saw the dank garden, and boarded windows and doors.

"A fifth-year told me that even the Hogwarts ghosts are freaked out by it," whispered Mike, as the three of them leaned side-by-side on the garden fence, gaping at the Shrieking Shack, "when I asked him about it in the library when I was supposed to be completing an essay for Snape. When I asked Nearly Headless Nick about it, he said a rough crowd inhabits it, and nobody ever enters it."

"Of course they don't," Chris whispered back, seemingly compelled, as Mike was, to keep his tone low and reverent. "You'd be torn limb from limb if you dared to try."

As he expressed as much, Bill could have sworn that he heard a moan and shriek emerge from the shack, and felt the overpowering urge to scream as well. Refusing to do so, he whispered to his companions, "Did you hear that?"

Ashen-faced, the other two nodded.

"I'm thirsty. Let's go to the Three Broomsticks, and get some of that butterbear," he hissed, and the boys hurried down the hill, and back into the main settlement of Hogsmeade, where they began to walk at a more leisurely place. When they entered the Three Broomsticks, they marched up to the counter, ordered three foaming tankards of steaming hot butterbeer from the curvy barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, whom Chris flirted with as she filled their order.

Once they had their drinks, Bill, Chris, and Mike edged their way through the packed pub until they happened upon a small, vacant table wedged between the frost-covered window and the roaring fire in the stone fireplace.

"Happy Halloween!" Chris declared cheerily, raising his tankard, as his two friends copied his movement. Three mugs banged lightly together in a toast, and then three teenagers sipped.

After that first sip, Bill recognized that he was infatuated with butterbeer from the start for it was probably the most delicious liquid he had ever drunk, and it heated every inch of him, even his toes.

When they were halfway through their mugs of butterbeer, Chris proposed that they make a dent in the candy they had purchased at Honeydukes, so they all dumped their bags of sweets on the table as a communal source of dessert. As they worked their way through ounces of candy, and three tankards of butterbeer apiece, talking about everything from school to Quidditch to who was dating whom, Bill felt a cozy, safe feeling course through his veins. He was at peace, and enjoying gobbling steadily through their supply of treats and butterbeer, and he never wanted these precious moments to end, for he would be content to just sit here like this with his two best friends forever.

But time would not hear of such nonsense, and, besides, would halt for no man, and the wonderful afternoon came to an end. As the sun descended, staining the sky a tie-die hue of red, orange, pink, and purple, Mike sighed, "I suppose we'd best head back up to the castle. We don't want to miss the Halloween feast, after all."

Regretfully, the others nodded, and they packed up, and made their way back down the rural lane from Hogsmeade back to the school, where they climbed the massive stairwell into the entrance hall, and crossed into the Great Hall, which, since breakfast, had somehow gotten decorated with hundreds of jack-o-lanterns, a cloud of fluttering live bats that swarmed about the Hall like owls in the morning, and millions of vibrant orange streamers, which lazily danced across the jet black ceiling like serpents.

The food was superb, and even Bill, Chris, and Mike, managed to gorge down second helpings of everything. On the same token, the entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts, who did some awesome formation gliding and stunts, was a brilliant success. In fact, the evening was so pleasant that even Peeves, who had elected to hover by the exit into the entrance hall, dropping water balloons loaded with pumpkin filling on students as they left the Great Hall, and would not desist even when McGonagall and Dumbledore commanded that he cease, and who lobbed three loaded balloons at Bill, Chris, and Mike as they departed the Great Hall, could dampen Bill's good cheer. Instead, he just laughed with his two buddies, and raced off to the Gryffindor showers, where they had to wait in a long line, because all the Gryffindor boys wanted to rinse the pumpkin off themselves. Still, it was one of the best Halloweens of his life.


	15. Chapter 15

Bedtime Stories (Edited)

"William Arthur Weasley! If you aren't down in this kitchen in less than a minute, so help me Merlin I will…"

Sighing, fourteen-year-old Bill Weasley, a week out of his third-year at Hogwarts, threw down his quill in exasperation, and shoved the letter he had been writing to his current girlfriend, Heather Walsh, under the notes he had just finished scribbling to Chris and Mike, because he did not want Charlie to read that particular piece of private correspondence. Then, he charged downstairs, figuring that he had kept his mother waiting long enough, and if he made her wait anymore she would devise a way to make him regret it. After all, the tyranny of mothers was extreme.

"Finish your sentence," he supplied cheekily, grinning winningly as he arrived in the kitchen.

His mother glared at him, not appreciating his levity. "You'll come downstairs when I call you next time, young man."

"I did, Mum," he protested with innocent conviction.

"You know perfectly well that I meant you'll come down the first time I call, not the third," snapped Mrs. Weasley, hands on hips in the pose that everyone in the Weasley clan dreaded, because it signified that an explosion from Mount Molly was imminent.

"Sorry, Mum," he apologized earnestly, hoping to defuse some of her negative energy. "I was doing something important, and…"

"Something important, huh?" she scoffed. "Well, I've something important for you to do. You're going to march up those stairs and tell the twins, Ron, and Ginny a bedtime story."

"Mum, I'm writing a letter to Chris right now!" He decided against mentioning Heather, because his mother did not approve of how quickly he ran through girlfriends. In fact, little he did seemed to please her, although she was pleased with his grades, but she appeared to take that for granted now. To be honest, normally he did not mind tending to his younger siblings, but at the moment he was in the middle of answering a letter from his girlfriend, and he should be allowed to live his own life every once in a while. None of his friends had to constantly play the role of a third parent like he did. It just wasn't fair.

"You can complete your letter to Chris when you're done telling the twins, Ron, and Ginny a story." Molly Weasley was adamant.

Mr. Weasley, who had been attempting to read the _Daily Prophet_ in the corner, but was continually being interrupted in this endeavor by his spouse's shouting looked up at his son. "That seems reasonable, don't you think, Bill? It'll only take about fifteen minutes, and Chris will still receive his letter. He's old enough to wait, but your younger siblings aren't."

"Dad!" Bill whined, not sure what he meant to say. When phrased like that, there was no logical reason why he couldn't do as he was told, and saying that he just didn't feel like doing so sounded selfish. Unmoved by his son's appeal, expect for an amused grin at the childish groan, Mr. Weasley continued to read the paper in the telegraphic fashion caused by the argument raging beside him.

"Your dad's right," Mrs. Weasley cut in, "and you'll do as I say now, or you'll be cleaning the dishes for me as well."

"Why can't Charlie tell the damn story for once? Why the hell do I always have to be the one who is responsible for everyone else, the one who takes care of everyone else?" demanded Bill softly, appalling even himself. They were the words he whispered to himself in his darkest moments, and now he had let them out into the open air, where he could not deny them. Yet he did not regret that he had spoken them. At the moment, he was irate enough not to care how much he hurt others.

"Do not use language like this in this house, William. Rest assured, I can still wash your mouth out with soup! You may speak like that in front of your friends at school―I hope you respect them enough not to, but you probably don't, because you most likely harbor under the delusion that it is cool―but you will not do so in front of me!"

Deciding that there was no way he could emerge the victor from this confrontation, Bill turned to leave, and as he did so, his mother commented sharply, "And for your information, William, your dear brother Charlie de-gnomed the garden for me this afternoon, and he took Fred and George off to the knoll to play Quidditch this morning while you hung out in your bedroom."

"Mum, Charlie likes de-gnoming the garden, and playing Quidditch, but I don't like telling fairy tales, instead of writing to my friends, so there's a difference," he educated her, whirling back to face her. He hated when she did this comparing one child to the other, as if trying to create a rivalry to see who could be the best child.

"Maybe after you've done the dishes and folded the laundry you won't think there's as much of a difference, especially not after we've had another conversation. Now go tell your brothers and sister that story!" Mrs. Weasley barked.

"I'm going, I'm going, Mum," Bill grumbled, trudging up the stairs, and, still glowering, he stomped into the nursery in a towering temper, causing Ginny and Ron to cringe at the sight of him.

"Right, I have to tell you lot a story, don't I?" He concealed as best he could his remorse at having terrified his youngest relations with his gruffness.

"Are you mad at me, Bill?" four-year-old Ginny whispered, fixing tearful hickory eyes on her eldest brother.

"No, I'm not angry at you, tigress. Sometimes a person gets angry at another person and he or she takes that anger out on another innocent person, usually one who is smaller than he or she is," explained Bill, before exhaling gustily, and confessing, "That's what I did, and I was wrong to do it to you, lioness, and you, Ron."

"Okay," responded Ginny, brightening immediately, "as long as you aren't mad at me."

"Who are you mad at?" Ron asked, blue eyes wide as Galleons.

"Mum," answered Bill. Not eager to elaborate, he chose to distract them. "Well, now that we've resolved that issue, why don't I tell you both a story?"

"We're supposed to wait until Fred and George come in," Ron educated him.

"Yeah," confirmed Ginny, nodding in assent as two identical red-headed tornadoes swept into the room in matching striped pajamas.

"Speak of the devils, and they come charging in to the terror of the general populace," laughed Bill, as Fred climbed up beside Ron, and George slipped in next to Ginny. "Now I can tell you lot a tale, right, or do I have to wait for Perce?"

"Percy doesn't like to do childish things like listen to bedtime stories, you know that," George remarked.

"Exactly, he's too busy being grown-up to have any fun at all," completed Fred.

"Good, then I'll start, shall I?" began Bill, inventing wildly as he went along. "Once upon a time in a far away land, there was a beautiful princess named Princess Ginerva, and she lived in a lovely castle with hundreds of servants to wait on her hand and foot, and she was as happy as anyone has a right to be. Then one day, disaster struck. The dreaded two-headed dragon Forge-Gred attacked her palace, killed all her servants, and kidnapped her. The horrible two-headed dragon locked her away in his dungeon. However, all was not lost. Brave Sir Harry and his good friend Sir Ronald rescued her, and the valiant Sir Harry wedded her, and they lived happily ever after."

"Is that it?" Ron demanded after a moment's silence.

"Yes."

"That's the lamest story I've ever heard," George complained.

"A plankton could have done a better job," finished Fred, and George nodded in fervent agreement.

"A shrubbery could have done better."

Bill glared at them. "Go to bed," he ordered.

"Only after you tell a better story," insisted Fred and George in unison.

"Fine," snarled Bill, capitulating. "What would you like to hear a story about?"

"Hogwarts!" shouted Fred immediately.

"Hoggy-Warty Hogwarts!" shrieked his twin.

"You want to hear about Hogwarts?" Bill echoed, surprised.

The twins nodded. "Are you deaf or just dumb?"

"Shut up, or I'll place a Silencing Charm on you two," he snapped, holding up a hand for quiet. When he got it, he went on, recollecting a neat almost-horror story he had come across in _Hogwarts a History_ while researching for a paper for History of Magic, "I'm going to tell you about the Chamber of Secrets. You all know that Hogwarts was founded approximately a thousand years ago by four witches and wizards―"

"Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin," interjected Percy, who was passing the door on his way to his bedroom that he shared with the twins, his nose buried deep in a tome as always. He glared at Bill under his horn-rimmed glasses. "You're not telling them about the Chamber of Secrets, are you? You know it's utter nonsense." Apparently he, too, had stumbled across the tale in _Hogwarts a History_.

"Of course I do, smart one, that's why it's called a bedtime story," Bill replied tersely, and Percy ambled off, his nose back in his book. Bill focused on his four youngest siblings again. "Anyway, together those witches and wizards built Hogwarts, and taught students, training those they thought showed the most potential in their own Houses. However, eventually they got into a disagreement on the subject of blood purity, because Slytherin wanted only purebloods to attend, but the rest were convinced that Muggle-Borns should also be educated. In the end, unable to sway the others of his misguided view, Slytherin left the school. Unfortunately, he left in a hidden chamber a monster that his heir alone would be able to control, and that could be used to purge the school of Muggle-Borns."

"What kind of monster?" Ginny demanded.

Bill shrugged. "Nobody knows, Ginny-girl, that's the mystery, isn't it? But they say Slytherin was a Parseltongue, so it's probably some evil reptile, if it even exists, which everyone knows it doesn't." He leaned forward, and kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, little sis."

She locked her arms around him so tightly that he thought she would never let go, but, in the end, she did. "I love you, Bill. You're the best big brother ever. You're my hero."

"You're my queen." Bill smiled, and turned to his brothers. "Good night, all of you."

"Night," Ron yawned, plopping his head down on his pillow.

"Good night," Fred and George called, dashing into their own room, most likely to terrorize Percy, who shared a room with them, and constantly lamented that fact.

Bill went downstairs, almost beaming although he understood that he was about to face a screaming mother. Somehow, by acting apologetic, he managed to cut the lecture short, although he still had to do the dishes and the laundry. Fortunately, he did still have enough energy when he was done with all those chores to finish his letter to his girlfriend. It turned out that he did have time for all the things he had to do, and all the things he wanted to do. Never again would he resent his obligation to his family, he told himself.

He even decided it was worth writing to Heather about, and, indeed, it was. She sent him a note so filled with amusement that he could almost hear the peals of her laughter and see her pretty smile, and told him about the bedtime stories she had been forced to tell her little sister Amy throughout her life. Bedtime stories were not so bad after all even for big kids, although dishes and laundry were another matter entirely.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: In the Goblet of Fire, Ron mentions that Bill had a penfriend in Brazil once and how he wanted to go on an exchange trip, but his parents couldn't afford it, which offended the Brazilian, who sent Bill a cursed hat. I can't find the exact page, because my mother is hogging (borrowing) my fourth Harry Potter book, but it's at the World Cup. This was too cute an opportunity to miss, so…

By the way, I realized when I edited this chapter that I had neglected to give it a proper title when I first posted it (cringes with humiliation), so I rectified that this time around. However, if you have a better idea for the title, please feel free to contact me, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Explosions

"I need to visit Diagon Alley today to purchase a new pair of dragon hide gloves," Mrs. Weasley announced to her seven children, as she placed plates of fried eggs and home fires before each of them in turn on the Easter break of Bill's fourth year at Hogwarts, "because _someone's _made my old pair explode." Here she glared at her nine-year-old twin terrors so threateningly that a majority of mother dragons would have been envious of her menacing gaze.

"Some people, you mean," corrected George, as serious as he could be.

"Yeah, George and I are two different people," added Fred, nodding in agreement.

"And you should be grateful we blew them up with Filibuster Fireworks yesterday," George asserted, returning to the initial topic.

"They were old and yucky, and now you have an excuse to buy a brand new pair," finished Fred.

"A fashionable pair?" Bill arched his eyebrow at the twins, grinning in spite of himself. He caught Charlie's eye from across the table, and instantly regretted it, because the second they made eye contact, they both burst into peals of laughter.

"Exactly." Fred bobbed his head in energetic confirmation, ignoring his two eldest siblings' amusement. "We wanted our dear mum to be able to buy a nice new pair of gloves that are the height of fashion."

"And we knew she wouldn't do so unless we got rid of the old ones," completed George.

Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "Don't you dare pretend that you had any concern besides causing trouble, Fred and George Weasley, or I'll put you in your bedroom for the rest of the day again, you see if I don't! Furthermore, I will decide when I need new gloves, not you, and I require new gloves now only because of your misbehavior." Crimson-faced, she whirled upon her eldest son. "As for you, you should know better than to encourage them, and they surely don't need your invaluable assistance in concocting excuses―they're quite capable of doing it on their own."

"Yes, Mum, sorry, you're right, as always," Bill responded dutifully, after a moment in which he bit back a scorching retort. If he wanted to accompany her, which he did, he'd have to flatter her, not rile her, and, more importantly, it seemed as if he was going to have to pacify her, as well.

"What do you want, Bill?" Mrs. Weasley sighed wearily.

"To be a gentleman and escort you to Diagon Alley and back again, that's all, nothing expensive or illegal," he replied.

"That's out of the question, and you're aware of that fact," she dismissed his request immediately. "I need you here to care for your siblings."

"Charlie can babysit them as well as I can," argued Bill, kicking Charlie in the shin to goad him into speech.

"That's right, I can do just that. Anything Bill can do, I can do better," seconded Charlie, incited by the kick.

There was a brief silence in which Mrs. Weasley contemplated this, then she snapped, "Well, I suppose you can't do a worse job." Again Bill found himself impaled upon the sword of his mother's flinty brown eyes. "I don't forget that it was under your charge that Fred and George managed to destroy my gloves while your father and I attended dinner at the Diggorys', Bill."

"Excuse me," Bill replied defensively, feeling the accusation was most unjust. "I was a little busy getting the acromantalas out from under Ron's bed, because this idiot―" he gestured at Charlie― "had the brilliant notion of showing him pictures of them―"

"It was not one of Charlie's more ingenious ideas," Percy put in pompously, and Charlie shrugged cheerfully, unfazed by the allegations swarming the air around him.

"Thank you, Perce. So, you see, Mum, I was too preoccupied with looking after Ron, who was sure he was going to be attacked by a clan of gigantic man-eating spiders, to stand over Fred and George every blasted moment," concluded Bill, somewhat complacently, because he was confident that his logic was utterly unassailable.

Percy's support appeared to prevent Mrs. Weasley from exploding, because Percy had always been her angel on earth. "Do you want to come with me or not, Bill?" she demanded, arms wrapped over her chest, in the end.

"Yes, I must get more basic ingredients for Potions," answered Bill, nodding eagerly.

"Then, finish eating in silence, go change out of your pajamas, and then meet me in the living room in twenty minutes, so we can Floo to Diagon Alley." Without waiting for an answer, she pivoted to face her second oldest offspring. "As for you, Charlie, you'll refrain from showing your younger siblings any monster pictures while I'm away."

"I didn't show them monsters," Charlie muttered, as Bill ate his last forkful of scrambled eggs, and headed over to the sink to wash his dishes, rolling his eyes affectionately at his brother's folly.

"Acromantalas are monsters, Charles!" Molly Weasley flared up. "And you will not show my children anything that might be constituted as monstrous, or otherwise horrifying, if you have any understanding of what's good for you!"

Half an hour later, Mrs. Weasley and Bill stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into Diagon Alley, and navigated their way through the throng of shopping witches and wizards who congested the cobbled street over to Madam Malkin's, where Molly hoped to purchase dragon hide gloves. The two of them quickly found the rack with gloves, mittens, and sweaters, and Mrs. Weasley rummaged through it briskly. When she paused to study a pair of dragon hide gloves that were dyed cerulean like stars in a midnight sky, which no doubt cost a fortune or at least more than any Weasley could afford, Bill had to avert his eyes, pained by his mother's desire. By the time his focus had returned to the rack, Mrs. Weasley had selected an ordinary pair of dragon hide gloves. Without glancing at him, she sailed over to the counter, paid Madam Malkin for the gloves, and then they left the store together.

"Come on, dear, let's go to the Apothecary to get your ingredients," Mrs. Weasley commanded, as they exited Madam Malkin's, and arrived in then cobbled street, the weak April sun shining on their heads. "I want to get home before Fred and George blow up the house on us."

As she expressed this understandable sentiment, they entered the Apothecary, and observed a situation that could frustrate her wishes: there was a considerable queue of people waiting by the counter to have their orders filled. As they joined the line, Mrs. Weasley inquired, "Do you think Charlie requires new ingredients, too?"

"Nah." Bill shook his head. "He would've said something if he did. I mean, he's been talking for a few years now."

"I know that," Mrs. Weasley smiled, then flapped her hands like a pigeon's wings. "If you want, you can wander about the shop for a while, instead of waiting on line."

Normally, Bill would resent the implication that he was too much of a baby or a brat to wait patiently in line with his mum, but the Apothecary was too interesting to miss an opportunity to explore its contents. After all, even though it stank of rotten eggs and something else that was unpleasant but impossible to name or describe, the stench of the place was forgotten when examining the jars of herbs, dried roots, and powders that lined the walls, and the bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws that hung from the ceiling.

Apparently, he was not the only person who felt that way, because just as he was scrutinizing a unicorn horn, somebody tapped his shoulder rather rudely.

"Move," a voice commanded in heavily accented, halting English. "I looking at that."

"You can look at it when I'm done. I was here first," Bill responded irritably without turning his head, miffed at such an impolite order. "That's how we do it in England, if you don't know―we wait out turn."

"We―como voce o diz em ingles― share?" the voice proposed tentatively.

Relenting due to this caveman English, Bill moved to the left, and allowed an olive-skinned boy with obsidian hair and eyes to stand beside him. "You mean, 'May we share?' or 'May I look at that with you?' Before you meant, 'Excuse me, I'd like to look at that,' or 'Please move, so I can look at that.' Without 'please' or 'excuse me', you'll be thought ill-mannered."

"Oh. May we―que e ele outra vez― share?" the boy hedged.

"Of course, we are already," Bill laughed, and the other smiled slightly.

"I Juan Gonzalaz."

"William―Bill―Weasley. Nice meeting you. That's what we say when we are introduced to someone," he explained.

Juan nodded, attempting to absorb the lesson. "My papa speak English good, but I don't."

"It's alright." Bill educated him, "I don't speak―what is it you speak, Juan?"

"Portuguese."

"Right. I don't speak Portuguese at all. What are you doing in England?"

"Me and my family are on a trip around Europe. After this, we go to Spain, Portugal, France, Germany, and Italy. Fun it should be."

"I'm sure it will be fun. So, what do you think of England?" Bill asked, curious to hear an outsider's opinion of his nation.

"It cold and it rain much," stated Juan firmly.

"I suppose you get accustomed to the climate," grinned Bill.

"Don't have the time," muttered Juan. "Leave two days from this day."

"I see, well, enjoy the rest of your trip."

"You teach me English," Juan observed.

"Only a wee bit," shrugged Bill. "You don't have to thank me."

"In Brazil, debts paid. I teach you Portuguese."

"That won't be necessary," Bill reassured him quickly, envisioning how fast he would butcher Portuguese.

"I mail you Portuguese-English dictionary like one my papa has," continued Juan, misinterpreting the other boy's comment as an English expression of gratitude, "and I write to you."

"I'll write back," promised Bill, capitulating. A scrapbook was shoved under his nose along with a quill, and he queried, "You want me to fill out my address here?"

"Where I write you, yes." Juan bobbed his head affirmatively.

Bill scribbled down his address, and returned the scrapbook to its owner, as his mother shouted, "Bill! Time to go!"

"My mum's calling me, and I'd best not keep her waiting," he murmured regretfully, waving at Juan. "Well, good-bye. It was nice meeting you. Don't forget to write." As he walked away, he beamed sheepishly. "Maybe I do want to learn Portuguese, after all."

"I write you in English. You write me in Portuguese. Good-bye." Juan waved, as Bill slowly wended his way over to his mother. When he reached her, she grumbled, "There you are at last. Why didn't you come immediately when I called?"

"I was talking with someone," he informed her steadily. "Besides, you know it didn't hold you up any."

"That's for me to decide," Mrs. Weasley answered testily as she thrust a bag of potions equipment into his arms, "and you can talk to your friend at Hogwarts, dear." The last bit came out more kindly, as they stepped out of the Apothecary, and into the bustling thoroughfare, headed toward the Leaky Cauldron.

"No, I can't," panted Bill, wondering vaguely how much potions ingredients she had purchased. Surely enough to supply him, Charlie, and every other Hogwarts pupil with all the necessary ingredients for the potions they would make in the next twenty-seven years, he concluded.

"I don't see why you can't," she countered.

"You will when I tell you he doesn't attend Hogwarts, Mum."

"Don't be silly, dear, everyone goes to Hogwarts, as it's the only magical school in all of Britain," she dismissed this.

"I know that, Mum, just as well as you do, I'm not stupid," Bill scowled, as they arrived outside the Leaky Cauldron.

About to open the door to the pub, Mrs. Weasley withdrew her hand from the doorknob, and frowned at him. "You're putting words in my mouth again. I did not claim that you're stupid, nor, as it happens, do I think that. As a matter of fact, I am convinced that you're a very intelligent young man."

"All right, all right." Bill reached past her to open the door for them, slightly embarrassed. As they walked toward the fireplace so they could Floo home, he added by way of clarification, "My friend lives in Brazil."

"You have a friend that lives in Brazil?" she asked, while they both grabbed a handful of Floo Powder.

"I do now. Just met him. He and his family are vacationing in Europe, and we agreed to be penfriends."

Mrs. Weasley nodded in understanding as they stepped into the flames, dropped the Floo Powder, and shouted, "The Burrow."

Juan was as good as his word. The next day, he sent Bill a Portuguese-English dictionary along with a letter written in rough English. Bill corrected it, labored intensely over a reply in Portuguese, which, despite his best efforts, probably contained more errors in it than it did right parts, and sent this and the note of Juan's that he had edited to his new pen pal, who revised Bill's, and owled back in telegraphic English. Slowly, Juan's English improved, just like Bill's Portuguese gradually did, so that by the second to last day of Easter break, Juan had grasped enough English to suggest that Bill go on a transfer program to Brazil, so that he could see Juan's native country, just as Juan had seen his.

Now that the idea had been presented to him, Bill found he approved of it, for he found the notion of traveling to a new land, with a different culture and a new language he was struggling to learn, appealing, because of the challenges it would bring, not daunting due to the obstacles he understood he would have to surmount if he went. Also, he would get to see Juan, again, instead of just depending upon owls to communicate and keep their bond alive.

"Dad!" he called from the desk in the upstairs bedroom he shared with Charlie, where he had been reading and editing Juan's letter.

"I'm in the kitchen, Bill! Come downstairs if you want to talk to me!" Mr. Weasley hollered back, and his son shrugged, determining that his request was better made face-to-face anyhow. Within seconds, he had thundered down the stairs into the kitchen, where his father was sorting a load of laundry. As he entered, his dad glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"Dad, you know I have a penfriend in Brazil, right?" He chose to open with a question.

"Everyone in the house knows by now," Mr. Weasley commented lightly. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's hard keeping a friendship alive just by letters, isn't it? Especially when the person you're writing to is trying to write to you English and you're trying to reply in Portuguese," reasoned Bill.

"Hmm," Mr. Weasley murmured noncommittally, doubtless surmising where his teenaged son was headed with such a remark. However, he came up with no grounds on which to dispute the claim, except, "You've a Portuguese-English dictionary, and I'm certain he has an English-Portuguese one."

"I do, and he does, or rather his pai― that's father in Portuguese, by the way― does, and I use mine, and he employs his, and we correct each other's mistakes, and we're both learning loads," established Bill stubbornly, his chin stuck out in the pose that indicated he was ready for battle, feeling that he and Juan were both progressing well, considering they had commenced this enterprise with a pathetic grasp of the other's tongue. "We've both been enriched by the experience, and we've both broadened our minds." As he finished the final sentence, he managed to conceal a smirk at one of the fraud Professor Trelawney's favorite phrases.

"I'm happy to hear it."

"Imagine how much more enriching it would be if I could immerse myself fully in the splendors of Brazilian culture."

"No, that's simply out of the question, and you know it, or you should." Mr. Weasley's tone was firm and inexorable.

"But, Dad―" He started to protest, but was chopped off.

"Don't 'But, Dad' me about this, please." Bill's father's hand rose to curtail his speech.

The "please" was enough to cause Bill to ignore the instruction. "Dad, please, I really want to go."

"I said no, Bill," Mr. Weasley repeated.

Without his knowledge, Bill's hands landed on his hips, while he insisted,"You can't just say no like that."

"I just did, didn't I?" His father's eyebrows arched.

"Dad, that's the most ridiculous thing you could possibly in response to my comment, and you know it."

A sigh emerged from Mr. Weasley. "I said no, Bill, and I meant it. Do you need to hear it in Portuguese as well as English? If so, fetch me your Portuguese-English dictionary."

If it were any other time, the weariness in his dad's tone would have made Bill back off, but not this time. This time he seriously wanted to travel to Brazil, and he did not think it was fair that his father dismissed his request so quickly, when he was a good kid, who didn't demand much, considering how much of his life he spent babysitting and completing chores around the house.

"No, I understand English fine, thanks," he answered icily, "and I also am capable of speaking in it, as well, but that hardly matters, because you refuse to listen to a word a say in English or in any other language, for that matter."

"Listen to me―"

"No," interjected Bill, not caring at the moment how insolent he was being, because if he was not going to get to go anyway, he might as well take out some of his anger on his father. "If you won't listen to me, then I won't listen to you. That's fair, isn't it?"

"That's not―"

"Never mind," Bill rode over him. "Fair doesn't matter to you, does it? All my friends go on vacations, and I've never been on one in my entire life. Heck, I even have a difficult time convincing Mum to let me accompany her to Diagon Alley, because I've got to care for my siblings. I never get anything I want, because we're dirt poor just because you're not ambitious enough to get a real job, and―"

"Be quiet, now, William, or you'll be a very sorry young man," snapped Mr. Weasley, lurching forward, and shaking his son by the shoulders.

"You can't punish me," Bill noted quietly, "since I already have no life, thanks to you and Mum, and, besides, I don't see why I should be punished for voicing the truth."

Releasing the adolescent as if he was a burning iron, Mr. Weasley marched over to a kitchen chair, yanked it out in an irate manner, and ordered tersely, "Sit."

"Are you really putting me in time-out?" Bill did not bother to keep the scorn from his tone. "Let me get this straight: you're going to force me to sit down for fifteen minutes, and I'm supposed to care. Why exactly? Because I don't get to play with ABC blocks with Charlie or something? In case you haven't noticed, I don't use them anymore."

"No, you aren't going to sit in time-out, but you are going to fold the laundry tonight, and you're going to clean the chicken coop and organize the shed tomorrow, but at the moment, you're going to sit down as I told you to, son, because I'm your father, and you're not to disobey me."

Without his realizing it, Bill's eyes had widened at this punishment, because the laundry was a typical sentence, but the chicken coop had not been purged thoroughly in the past century, and he had no clue when the shed had last been tidied, or the last time a Weasley had been foolhardy enough to attempt the task, for that matter. Dazed, he plopped into a chair, although he purposefully selected a different chair than the one his father had tugged out for him. After all, he must maintain some show of pride and dignity.

"Good, we're getting somewhere," Mr. Weasley observed coldly. "Now, tell me, William, do you have a job?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." Bill mentally justified providing the response he sensed would anger his parent further, by reminding himself of all the work he did at the Burrow, which meant he had not exactly told a falsehood.

"You do? Somehow I wasn't aware of such a development."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't be, since you don't really care about me much. Anyway, my job pays less than yours, but that's only because I don't get paid at all for doing my job―"

"Caring for your siblings and helping your mum is not a job, and you know it!"

"What is it, a pleasure?" The instant the acerbic words emerged from his mouth, he regretted them, because they weren't true, not really. He loved his siblings and his parents, and he did not mind helping them as much as possible, in fact, for the most part, he took pleasure in it. However, he was too headstrong to apologize.

For a long moment, silence reigned supreme in the kitchen, during which time Arthur took several deep breaths, trying to control his temper, and when he spoke, his voice was clipped, "Let me make my meaning plain, William Arthur. Until you have a paying job that allows you to support yourself, I don't want to hear you complaining about what you have to do without, because until you have to pay for things, you don't understand the cost of them." As he spun on his heel and stalked toward the door, the back of his neck and his ears were a vibrant scarlet.

For some reason, his words cut Bill like a saber, and he found himself calling after him, "Dad, wait!" Although his father whirled about to face him, he did nothing more to close the breach between them. If Bill wanted to narrow the gap that had recently developed between them, he would have to do so himself.

"I―I―" No stammering, he instructed himself sternly, think for a moment about what you want to say, and then say it, otherwise you'll sound like a bloody idiot. "I understand that we don't have a lot of money, and that you work hard to provide for us, Dad, and I don't really mind tending to the others most of the time, truly I don't. But, I just hate being poor. I know it sounds selfish, but I loathe always having to do without."

"If I had the money, Bill, I'd let you go to Brazil, you understand that, don't you?" Mr. Weasley's tone was soft, mild.

Miserable, Bill nodded, hating himself now for putting the pair of them in this position. He knew his father had no money. Why had he even asked in the first place?

For a minute, Arthur hesitated, then he came out with, "I enjoy my job, even though it does not pay well, but money has never been most important to me, my happiness and that of my family's, has always been, and happiness does not come from material things, does it?"

"No, Dad." Even as he expressed as much, Bill recognized that he was half-lying. Money was not the most important thing to him, no, but it mattered to him. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in poverty. In that instant, he pledged to himself that he would travel and see the world outside of England, and he would find a job that paid him well, and didn't trap him as a Ministry career would. As he began to fold the laundry, he thought that he loved his father, yes, but he had no desire to become a duplication of him, either.

The next morning before breakfast as he was starting to tidy the shed, which he figured he had better tackle first, since it appeared to be more challenging than the chicken coop, Ginny darted up to him, her mane of auburn hair trailing behind her, her hickory eyes alight with bewilderment. "What are you doing?" she demanded with curiosity.

"Cleaning the shed," he replied, as he began to remove rusty pails and ancient broomsticks from the shed, sighing at the seemingly endless mess. "I shouldn't have gotten into that argument with Dad, and I wish that I was permitted to use magic outside school."

"I wish I could fly," murmured Ginny, eyeing the old broomsticks with longing.

"You can, lioness. Just borrow one of Fred, George, or Charlie's brooms, if Charlie's here, of course, not at Hogwarts."

"They won't let me play with them, Bill, and they won't let me borrow their brooms," exploded Ginny, her small frame trembling like grass in a strong gust of wind in her wrath, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were as pale as marble.

"They won't?" Bill shook his head at the cruelty of his younger brothers, as he ordered the buckets on a shelf, and placed the brooms neatly in a corner, after destroying a spider web in the aforementioned corner, that is. Before Ginny could confirm this, he amended, "Don't let that bother you, tigress. They don't want you to play with them, because you're too good for them, and they know you'll beat them soundly if they try to fight you, so they avoid you."

"Grrl power," giggled Ginny, purring like the lioness Bill had nicknamed her for.

Despite the dirty labor he was doomed to do all day, Bill found himself smiling at the redhead beside him. "Exactly, but you don't need their permission to learn how to fly, Ginny-girl."

"I don't?" Ginny echoed, puzzled again, her forehead furrowed.

"Nope, you can teach yourself, for that's the best way to learn, anyhow."

"How am I going to do that when I haven't got a broomstick?" she demanded.

"Sneak out in the middle of the night, pick the lock of the shed, borrow one of your charming brother's broomsticks, and learn to fly," he explained. "It's that simple."

"How do you pick a lock?" Ginny's eyes were bright and eager.

"I'll show you," Bill responded, laughing, "if you hurry up to your bedroom and grab one of your pretty little hair clips."

"You're my knight, the one who always rescues me like in a fairy tale," declared Ginny, throwing her surprisingly strong arms, which were deceptively slender, around his waist for a few seconds, then releasing him.

Fondly, he patted her on the head. "And you're my princess, the fair young lady I always hope to impress."

"You do," she hollered over her shoulder, as she charged back to the Burrow.

When Juan learned that Bill was unable to participate in an exchange program, he sent Bill a letter:

**Dear Bill-**

**Sorry you cannot go to Brazil. Hope this will make you better.**

and a hat. The hat was not much to look at, but, out of politeness, he tried it on, and immediately wished he had not. There was a loud bang, his ears felt as if they were imploding, and the next second, his ears were shriveled up and the size of peas.

Fortunately, Charlie was in the bedroom as well, packing for their return trip to Hogwarts the next day, and he jumped at the resounding bang. When he spotted his brother's plight, he stared for five seconds, and then reassured his roommate, "Don't worry, I'll get Mum!" With a clatter, he dashed downstairs to the kitchen to fetch their mother, shouting, "Mum, Mum, something dreadful has happened to Bill's ears!"

Scarcely a minute later, Bill heard two sets of feet barreling up the stairs, and, seconds later, Charlie returned with their mum. After recovering from her initial shock at seeing her oldest son's condition, Mrs. Weasley regained her senses and waved her wand, muttering a countercurse, and the ears of the bewitched once more were their normal size and texture.

"What on earth happened here?" Molly demanded, hands planted on her hips like weeds rooted in a garden, glaring at first one lad, then the other. "Were you two dueling, because if you were―"

"Mum, would responsible Bill duel?" Charlie wanted to know.

"You're talking about Charlie and I, not Fred and George, Mum, and we don't duel," snickered Bill at the same time.

"Yeah, we don't even argue that much," contributed Charlie, "opposites attract, you see."

"If that were true, then the twins and Percy would be inseparable, so I wouldn't go by the age-old aphorism, if I were you, which fortunately I am not. After all, I'm sure we have something in common." Bill pretended to frown in consternation.

"We both care just the right amount, that's what it is," Charlie reasoned. "I mean, Percy cares way too much for any sane person, and that's why he can't stand the twins, who bring not caring at all to a whole new level."

"Boys, this isn't helpful in the least," Mrs. Weasley interrupted impatiently. "Well, if you weren't dueling, what happened to Bill's ears?"

"My penfriend, well former penfriend I should say as I hardly think we're friends anymore, got miffed, apparently, when I said I couldn't go to Brazil, and, instead of complaining like a rational human being, he just sent me a cursed hat."

"That was highly immature and ill-bred of him!" snarled his mum. "Where does he live? I shall write to his parents about this! How dare he send you a cursed hat!"

"Don't trouble yourself, Mum," Bill soothed her, "I can handle it myself. It's not worth your distressing yourself over, and I can solve what's left of the problem myself, I promise."

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, before she conceded, "Fine. Tell me if you change your mind, though, dear." With that, she left the bedroom.

As soon as he was certain she was out of earshot, Charlie inquired, "How are you going to handle it?"

"How would you handle it?" Bill's voice was faint, muffled, because he was rummaging about in the box in the closet where he and Charlie stored the gloves, hats, and scarves Auntie Muriel had knitted them that neither of them ever wore.

"I'd punch the person in the mouth and stomach several times, but I don't reckon you can do that across the Atlantic Ocean."

"No, you can't," assented Bill, removing an ugly brown and yellow knitted hat from the cardboard box. "However, you can send a cursed hat across the Atlantic, one that will make whoever puts it on temporarily bald."

"He deserves it," his little brother smirked.

Maybe Juan felt the same way, because Bill never got another unpleasant owl from him, even though the cap was never returned, perhaps because Bill's note of thanks might indeed have tricked Juan into accepting the reciprocal present.


	17. Chapter 17

Reviews: Are more than welcome.

The Quidditch Cup (Edited)

"Bill!" At the sound of his name being shouted across the Gryffindor common room, fourth-year Bill Weasley looked up from the dream diary he was fudging for the following day's Divination lesson, and saw Charlie, his cheeks the color of cherries and brown eyes ablaze, hurrying toward him, as fast as he could while trying to weave his way around the furniture.

"Yes?" asked Bill, as Charlie plopped into the chair across the table from him.

"Did you look at the notice board?"

"Er, no, why should I have? Is someone offering a rare Chocolate Frog card for an awesome price, or something?"

"I don't think so." Charlie shook his head energetically. "What I'm so excited about is Quidditch!"

"Quidditch?" repeated Bill rather stupidly.

"Yes, don't be daft, Quidditch! Quidditch, you know with goal posts, a Quaffle, a Snitch, and Bludgers, and Beaters, Chasers, a Keeper, and, most importantly, a Seeker!" his brother exclaimed.

"For your information, I know what Quidditch is, because not everyone is as brainless as you are." Bill glowered at his younger sibling. "I just don't understand what you're so pumped about, to be frank."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "You did go to the extreme trouble of attending the last Quidditch match, didn't you?"

"I've attended every match of Gryffindor's since I started here, and you're aware of that," Bill replied, as he scribbled that he would fail a Potions quiz owing to an inauspicious positioning of Mercury, into his dream diary, knocking on wood to advert the misfortune even as he wrote it. "Not that I want to think about that one, mind, because we were slaughtered by Ravenclaw, partly because that Ravenclaw Beater knocked our Seeker, Conway, off his broom, and his brain got all beat up or something."

"Yeah, Conway still can't recall his own name for some reason," shrugged Charlie. "However, his misfortune is my good luck, because Captain Hooper is having trials tomorrow at six o'clock to find another Seeker to replace him in the final match against Slytherin."

"And you think that once he sees you in action, you'll end up replacing Conway, don't you?" Bill demanded keenly.

"I, well, I—that is to say—that Conway isn't the best Seeker in the world, is he?" Charlie flushed, then added defensively, "I mean, the only reason he caught that Snitch in the match against Hufflepuff in October was because the Hufflepuff Seeker tipped him off as to where it was by diving like a dove, and Conway had the presence of mind to follow him, and the Hufflepuff Seeker had a coughing fit at the wrong moment, allowing Conway the opportunity to catch the Snitch, which he did. It was all luck, and no skill, and if I had been playing instead, we would have had that game in the bag sooner, I swear." He looked seriously at his brother. "Nobody who has seen me in action could deny that I'm the better Seeker, right?"

"Of course you're the better Seeker, Char, you're a wonderful Seeker, and you know it, Mr. Arrogance. After he sees you play, Hooper will regret allowing Conway to play without having trails, that's for sure." At Charlie's smile, he promised, "Oh, and I'll be down in the stands tomorrow at six, in case you're wondering."

"I never doubted it, that's why I didn't bother to ask, I just told you what was happening." Charlie eyed the parchment on which his sibling was writing with raised eyebrows. "What are you up to?"

"Writing down fake dreams for that fraud Trelawney," his comrade responded, recording that on next Thursday a Charms experiment of his was to go horribly awry, because of a highly suspicious positioning of Neptune in relation to Pluto. In the next instant, the parchment bearing his dream diary was snatched out from under his nose.

The thief, Charlie, leant forward to examine it carefully, then muttered, "I'm never going to take Divination, for this is absolute rubbish. By the way, you might be interested in knowing that you're failing a major Transfiguration test two days in a row."

"Right, I'll change one of those to being eaten by the giant squid."

"That's funny, I've always heard that it was quite friendly, actually," Charlie teased.

"Me too," Bill admitted, and then amended more thoughtfully, "but Trelawney won't have, though, for she finds descending to often into the hustle and bustle of the main castle clouds her 'Inner Eye' as it makes her focus on mundane external factors of the outside world, rather than shifting that can occur deep in the subconscious."

Even though he had never had the pleasure of being educated by Professor Trelawney, Charlie could not help but chortle at his brother's imitation of her airy fairy tone. He was able to catch the joke since he had heard other Gryffindor students who had been misguided by the fates enough to enroll in Divination ridicule her by mimicking her voice in that sort of manner. "Maybe I'll take Divination just so I can hear balderdash like that every lesson, on second thought. That's just hilarious."

"It is, except once you realize that she's absolutely serious, you start to feel sorry for the nutcase."

"You're about as convincing as Peeves in your sympathy," chortled Charlie.

"I find it hard to be sympathetic, because she won't let us laugh at her phrases, because laughter destroys the clairvoyant vibrations," Bill admitted.

"Clairvoyant vibrations?" Charlie's eyebrow arched.

"Yes, after almost two years in her class, I still have no clue what they are, but apparently they can be disturbed," Bill educated him.

A pestering glint shone in Charlie's eyes now. "Want to make a prediction for me using clairvoyant vibrations and your Inner Eye and all that codswallop, Bill?"

Bill held up his copy of _Unfogging the Future_, which he had been utilizing to come up with ideas for the miseries that would befall him in the relatively near future, in a menacing insinuation. "Sure, if you don't clear out in about five seconds, a textbook will connect solidly with your skull." Sticking his tongue out at the other, Charlie rose out of his chair, and started to walk away without saying good-bye, as he usually did. As he watched his brother leave, Bill called after him, "I have another prediction for you: that you'll make the team as Seeker."

From another corner of the common room where he was chatting with Dan and Matt, Charlie hollered back, "Don't jinx it, idiot."

The next day at five minutes to six, Bill arrived in the Quidditch stands with Mike and Chris. As he glanced about the pitch for a decent seat, he caught sight of Charlie's best friends, Matt and Dan, and set off to seat himself near them, Mike and Chris in tow.

"Hey, what's up?" inquired Bill of the two second-years, as he slid into the seat to the right of them, and Chris and Mike settled themselves beside him.

"Nothing really," Matt informed him. "Hooper's just explaining the try-out procedures to Charlie and the other two blokes that are trying out—what're their names again?"

"Skinner and Stephens," Dan reminded his comrade.

"Oh, right," Matt mumbled, "not that it matters because they've got no chance. I've seen Charlie do the most spectacular catches. If Hooper was as smart as he likes to think he is, he'd have spotted Charlie playing with us in the pitch during the weekends, and he would've recruited him long before this."

"Without a doubt, Charlie's amazing, and he's got to be the best Seeker here," contributed Dan.

"Of course he is," Bill stated with the same air of confidence Professor McGonagall would employ when defining Vanishing Spells to a class of fifth or sixth years. "I've never doubted it for a moment."

As he expressed as much a blonde fifth-year boy, Stephens, mounted his broom and soared into the air, and Hooper released the Golden Snitch. Immediately, he flew after it, then seemed to lose sight of it, and flew in the opposite direction. Finally realizing that he was going the wrong way, he tried to cover his blunder by flipping over on his broomstick. Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be very impressive, because he almost fell off his broom. After that humiliating stunt, he abandoned any such displays, and focused on finding the Snitch, which he did succeed in doing ten minutes later.

The brown-haired third-year Skinner who tried out next was if anything decisively worse than Stephens. He had difficulty even getting of the ground, and he was completely unable to find the Snitch, forcing Hooper to end his trial after half an hour.

Judging by the expression on Hooper's face, he did not expect much of Charlie as he released the Snitch. However, he was to be proven wrong almost immediately, for Charlie swept of the ground in one sleek movement, his body a mere extension of the broomstick, a part of the wind, and the air, and soared after the Snitch, which dropped into a steep dive. Accelerating slightly, Charlie dove after it, and caught it only about eight feet from the ground, Hooper staring at him in joyful incredulity. As he, Chris, Dan, Matt, and Mike charged down the steps to congratulate Charlie on his brilliant catch, Bill saw his brother dump the Golden Snitch into the Gryffindor Captain's hand, smiling in satisfaction.

For a moment, Hooper gazed at the small golden ball as if unwilling to accept the reality of it."Welcome to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You're, um, welcome to stay on the team as long as you like, even after Conway recovers," Hooper mumbled as soon as he could speak, and Bill clapped his brother's shoulder in praise.

"Thanks," Charlie grinned at the captain, as Matt and Dan slapped him on the back.

"First practice is Friday at six. See you then," Hooper responded, still sounding a tad bit dazed, and sauntered off the pitch.

During the following day's Transfiguration class, Bill noted that Professor McGonagall was considering him oddly out of the corner of her eyes, and he conducted himself as best he could, making sure he did not play hangman with Mike and Chris, and copied down everything she wrote on the board on his parchment, even the facts that he already knew from reading. When they reached the practical part of the lesson, and were all attempting to transform their hedgehogs into pincushions, she marched up to the desk he was sharing with Chris and Mike. "Weasley?"

"Yes, Professor?" he asked, puzzled, wondering what on earth he had done wrong.

"You were at the Quidditch trials yesterday, weren't you?"

"Yes, Professor, I was," he answered, still nonplussed. "Why do you ask? That's not against the rules, is it?"

She ignored this, probably because she had already known the answer, and the inquiry itself had just been a matter of formality. "Hooper tells me that your brother Charles has become Seeker, and will replace Conway."

"That's what I think Hooper and Charlie agreed upon." Bill nodded blankly.

"Hooper was quite impressed with your brother, in fact, he told me that Charles caught the Snitch in his hand after a twenty foot dive a mere eight feet or so from the ground less than a minute after it had been released," she continued, watching his expression with shrewd eyes like a cat's.

"Professor, what are you getting at?" Bill was starting to get impatient, as was wont to happen when he did not understand the proceedings. When he looked at Chris and Mike, they seemed to be as clueless as he was, so at least he was not alone in his bewilderment, which indicated that he wasn't being entirely thick-headed, at least in his opinion.

Clearly, however, Professor McGonagall felt differently, for she snapped, "Don't play games with me, Weasley. I want you to tell me the truth of what happened."

"The truth, Professor?"

"Why must adolescents invariably answer a question with another question?" Professor McGonagall raised her eyes upward toward some unseen superior being for a moment before reverting her attention back to the teenaged lad before her. "Mr. Weasley, I'm obviously asking you if Hooper's account of the evening is accurate, because as captain, he might have the tendency to exaggerate things, since he wants desperately for Gryffindor to win the Cup this year, and last match was hard for him."

"I thought I was biased, too, Professor, because he's my brother," Bill pointed out, remembering bitterly her comment to him the year before. Instantly, as soon as the words emerged from his big mouth, he regretted voicing them, because McGonagall was not a teacher who appreciated sass, and she certainly would not enjoy being proven wrong, or reminded of the fact that she had perhaps made an error in judgment. Indeed, her eyes became slits rather like Snape's, and Bill hastened to go on, before she could put him in detention or hand him some other nasty punishment for impudence, "Anyway, Professor, I didn't have a yard stick with me to measure the dive or anything, but I'd agree with Hooper that it was approximately a twenty foot one, and a steep one, too, and, I didn't have a stopwatch, or anything, but it didn't take much more than a minute." He looked appealingly at Chris and Mike for backup. "Don't you two agree?"

"Absolutely, it was incredible," Chris confirmed immediately.

"Never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," clinched Mike, bobbing his head affirmatively.

"I see." Professor McGonagall nodded, and then turned on her heel, so that her back was to them. As she went off to help a Ravenclaw girl who had raised her hand for assistance, she called over her shoulder, "You'd best get on with your Transfiguration, you three, because your pincushions would still curl up in terror if anyone had the audacity to approach them with a pin, and surely you don't want additional homework, because you have not mastered the spell."

"Nasty, frigid old witch," grumped Mike. "It's obvious to anyone with one eighth of an eyeball that these aren't pincushions, they're hedgehogs..."

"That's what she was saying, Mike," Chris mumbled back, "she was telling us to get on with our Transfiguration work, because we had made zero progress since the outset of the practical part of the lesson. Do try to use your brain. I think you'll find it in your pocket."

Before Mike could retort, Bill cut in mutinously, "Well, that's why she's a horrible hag, isn't it? Because she distracted us, since she can't accept the fact that a second-year might actually be decent at Quidditch, and therefore, thought she must interrogate us, and then she has the nerve to reprimand us for not practicing transfiguration while she was giving us the third degree."

Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall, who had completed working with the Ravenclaw girl, noticed that they were talking, not doing Transfiguration, and suggested briskly, "Since Brown, O'Connor, and Weasley are finding it challenging to do their assignment during classtime, perhaps they would prefer to do this one and an additional one after school."

"Oh no, Professor," all three boys insisted as one, waving their wands and chanting the incantation in unison. Fortunately, Bill did not find it too difficult to master, and was able to get it on his fourth try, which meant he did not have to practice it for homework, on top of the essay the class had been assigned, although Chris and Mike, and half the class had not been so lucky.

On the last Saturday morning in May, Gryffindor would play Slytherin in the last match of the season. Slytherin was leading by two-hundred-twenty points. As Hooper kept lecturing Charlie, who Bill noted looked increasingly miffed with the repetition of this basic fact, Charlie, therefore, had to catch the Snitch when Gryffindor was at least seventy points ahead of Slytherin, and that, if such a circumstance occurred, he could not fail to grab it, because the Chasers for Gryffindor were not likely to score enough to ensure the win if Slytherin's Seeker got to the Snitch first.

All in all, Bill didn't think that Gryffindor's chances for winning the Quidditch Cup were brilliant, but they certainly could be worse. After all, John Hooper and the other two Chasers, Lisa Nessi and Melissa Albright, were exceptional at what they did, the Gryffindor Keeper, Angela Leighton, was skilled at keeping her focus, and the Beaters, Jimmy Denison and Davie Carver, were more than adequate at protecting their team, and terrorizing the other side. And Charlie would certainly be capable of catching the Snitch if the seventy point lead was secured. Still, it was a lot to ask of his team, and he did not dare to get his hopes up, nor, it seemed, did anyone else in his House, including the Quidditch team, although Hooper tried to keep their morale high...

The night before the match that would determine who won the Quidditch Cup, all usual pursuits were abandoned, because the atmosphere was too tense to attempt to think in, as everyone was anxious for the next day to come, so they could find out whether or not Gryffindor could win, despite the odds. Even the prefects, who could generally be relied upon to display an appropriate amount of academic diligence, closed their textbooks and laid down their quills for the evening, declaring that they could not work when they were unable to concentrate.

Privately, Bill also was willing to concede that their inability to concentrate might be due to the tremendous amount of noise that was prevailing in the Gryffindor tower, for many students had decided that their team required nothing more than a distraction, and, therefore, were yammering on more exuberantly and more shrilly than they would typically have done to the Quidditch players. Indeed, Bill could spot his brother sitting between his best mates, Dan and Matt, who were jesting with such great volume that he suspected the whole common room could have heard, had they not been engaged in their own unnaturally loud exchanges. As Bill watched the three of them, he saw that his sibling seemed to be laughing at Dan and Matt's jokes, for he kept emitting odd barks of what was plainly supposed to be amusement, and throwing his head back. However, Bill could tell from the grating quality of his brother's laughter that Charlie was far from merry or relaxed, and as his older brother, it was Bill's solemn duty and pleasure to soothe his nerves.

Bearing this in mind, he crossed the common room, and punched Charlie lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, man. How are you?"

"Fine," Charlie answered too swiftly for sincerity, his beam far too wide to be genuine.

"You're nervous. Relax, brother. You'll do great, I promise," Bill commented with quiet earnestness, so that Dan and Matt, who had moved away to allow the two brothers some privacy would not overhear.

"And what if I don't? What if I fail when everyone is watching, Bill?" Charlie's eyes, alight with distress, sought out his sibling's concerned ones.

"Well, I won't pretend that people won't be disappointed and that you won't find it highly humiliating if you mess up in public, but, Char, if you want the truth, nothing will change if you fail, nothing important, anyhow."

"What do you mean?" Charlie frowned.

"Exactly what I say, half-wit. You make everything so complicated, when it's not. The people who matter won't care if you fail, they'll just be there for you all the more, because they care about you as a person, not because of what they think you can achieve. The people who love you want you to be successful, but they still stand by you when you fail," Bill reassured him.

Charlie brightened slightly. "And failure isn't the worst thing in the world, is it? Everyone fails, and how would we learn if not from our mistakes?"

"By watching divine beings like myself, and striving to emulate them," reasoned Bill seriously to which Charlie snorted and rolled his eyes into his sockets. Figuring that he had stroked his brother's ego enough, Bill shoved himself off the sofa, and headed back toward Chris and Mike. On an abrupt impulsive bit of inspiration, he remarked, "Oh, and Charlie, I love you."

"Me too." When Bill raised his eyebrows, Charlie amended, "I love you, not myself, obviously, dim-wit."

At that moment, Hooper yelled, "Team, get to bed!"

Charlie and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team entered the Great Hall the following morning to enormous applause from the Gryffindors, as well as the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, although, as was to be expected by anyone with the intellectual caliber of a boulder, the Slytherin table hissed loudly as the Gryffindor players passed them. To Bill's considerable relief, Charlie did not seem as on edge as he had the evening before, even though he did seem a little pale, and did not eat as much as he would usually have done. When they had finished eating anything they could swallow, which was mostly porridge, the Gryffindor team hurried off to the field, presumably to take inventory of the conditions they would be playing in, and Bill cheered and clapped with the rest of his House as they departed, making sure that Charlie caught sight of his double-thumbs-up.

Ten minutes after the team had left, he and his friends and a herd of Gryffindors went out to the pitch, pinning on their scarlet rosettes, waving crimson flags with the proud golden Gryffindor lion in the center, and brandishing banners bearing slogans like "Let's Go Gryffindor," "Slytherins Suck," "Serpents Stink," and "Lions for the Cup."

When he had settled himself in the stands beside Chris, Mike, Jason, and Brian, with Heather, Jennifer, and Steph in the row up front, Bill realized that Professor McGonagall, like the rest of her House, was decked out in red and gold clothing, and, for some bizarre reason understood only by herself, was clutching a woolen scarf woven from those colors tightly too her neck, although it was a charming spring day, so she could not possibly be cold.

"And here are the Gryffindors, led by Captain Hooper!" announced the commentator, Bobby Smith, a Hufflepuff, who commentated every match. As the Gryffindors, Bill and his companions included, roared their support, the Slythering jeered and booed. "And here come the Slytherins, led by Captain Fitzgerald." It was the Slytherins chance to applaud, and the Gryffindors chance to boo.

Bill watched as Captains Hooper and Fitzgerald shook hands challengingly before fourteen players mounted their brooms and soared into the air when Madam Hooch blew her whistle to start the game.

"And it's Gryffindor in possession, Melissa Albright of Gryffindor has got the Quaffle, heading straight for the Slytherin goal posts, and looking fine, Melissa! Blast, Quaffle taken by Warton of Slytherin, Warton tearing down the field—Ouch!—nice Bludger work there by Beater Denison of Gryffindor—and Warton drops the Quaffle, which is caught by Lisa Nessi, and Gryffindor is in possession again. Nessi heads to the Slytherin goal posts, come on, Lisa, and nice swerve around Morris of Slytherin—duck, Lisa, that's a Bludger—good job, there, and she shoots and—SHE SCORES. TEN-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!"

As the sea of scarlet below her, Bill included, screamed its delight, Lisa punched the air in triumph. The Slytherin Keeper tried to pass the Quaffle to one of his Chasers, but Melissa Albright intercepted it, and put it through the goal posts, before the Slytherin Keeper could react. Slytherin Chaser Warton took out his temper by smashing into Melissa, who was nearly thrown from her broom.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Warton exclaimed, covering his mouth in a caricature of horror at his actions when the crowd hissed its disapproval at his dirty tactics. "I didn't even see her there!"

Fortunately, Madam Hooch was not taken in by such a lie, and awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot, which was greeted with applause by the Gryffindor fans. "Come on, Melissa!" Bill hollered, despite the fact that he knew she could not hear him, as she flew forward to take the penalty.

"Yes!" shouted Bobby the commentator. "She's beaten the Keeper! Thirty-zero to Gryffindor! Anyway, Slytherin in possession—no, Gryffindor in possesion—no, Slytherin—wait, Hooper takes it, and its John Hooper, Captain of the Gryffindors with the Quaffle, and he's streaking up the field. Hold on, that was intentional!"

Unless Bill's eyes had deceived him, Slytherin Chaser Morris had swept in front of Hooper, and instead of seizing the Quaffle, grabbed his head. Cartwheeling like a gymnast in the air, Hooper managed to stay on his broom, although he understandably relinquished his hold on the Quaffle.

To Bill's relief, Madam Hooch's whistle rang crisply through the spring air as she soared over to Morris and berated him. Barely a minute later, Hooper had put another penalty past the Slytherin Keeper. In Bill's opinion, Bobby summed up the events fairly and succinctly when he remarked, "Forty-zero with Gryffindor in the lead! Swallow that bitter pill, you cheating scum!"

"Smith," Professor McGonagall snapped into the megaphone, "if you're incapable of commentating in an unbiased way..."

"Professor, I'm telling it like it is, and if that's not fair, I don't know what fair is," Bobby argued.

Bill lost interest in the debate raging over the megaphone, because he saw his brother streaking toward the Slytherin goal, a look of absolute concentration on his face. What in the name of Merlin was he thinking? He couldn't catch the Snitch, now, because if he did, Gryffindor would win the match, but not the Cup...oh, wait, what was that flicker of gold he thought he saw glinting by the Gryffindor end? Could it be the Snitch?

That was it, Bill realized, Charlie was pretending he had seen the Snitch by the Slytherin end, so that the Slytherin Seeker wouldn't catch it before he did. Charlie's ploy was working great, Bill noted smugly, because the Slytherin Seeker was speeding up, trying to catch up with the redhead, clearly harboring under the delusion that Charlie had spotted the Snitch...

In the next instant, two events that made Bill's heart stop beating in his chest for a few seconds occurred in rapid succession. A Bludger, hit by one of the massive, rhinoceros-sized Slytherin Beaters, whizzed past his brother's ear, only because Charlie had the instinct to duck, just as another Bludger grazed his elbow. Grimacing, Bill watched anxiously as the two Slytherin Beaters zoomed in on his younger sibling, their clubs upraised. Fortunately, Charlie sped up higher into the air at the last second, and the two Slytherin players collided with a sickening crunch, their bats bashing each other on the head, rather than their opponent. Seeing Charlie stick out his tongue at the Slytherins and fly off to the other end of the field, away from any further retribution, he prayed that his little brother would not get cocky, because he was good, but he was not perfect.

"Haa, haa, take that!" yelled Bobby Smith, as the Slytherin Beaters stumbled away from each other in an ungainly fashion, expressions of bewilderment etched on their faces, apparently unable to figure out what had hit them. "Pity, boys. You'll need to get up earlier to fool new Seeker Weasley, it seems! And it's Gryffindor in possession once more as Lisa Nessi takes the Quaffle—Warton alongside her, so kick him in the face, Lisa, don't worry, Professor, it was a joke, not a serious suggestion—oh no, Warton's got the Quaffle, Warton flying toward the Gryffindor posts, come on now, Angela, save it!"

Somehow, Angela managed to dive and catch it, and Bill clapped with the rest of the Gryffindors. It was quickly turning into the dirtiest game he had ever witnessed. Enraged that Gryffindor had taken such an early lead, the Slytherins were resorting to any means to gain the Quaffle. A Slytherin Beater hit Melissa with his club, and attempted to claim that he had mistakenly thought she was the Quaffle, because of her crimson robes. Davie Carver elbowed the offending Slytherin Beater in retaliation, and Madam Hooch awarded both teams penalties. Although Angela Leighton pulled off another spectacular save, the Slytherin Keeper failed to block Hooper's attempt to score, bringing the tally up to fifty-to-zero.

Hooper, Lisa, and Melissa scored once more each, but Angela let the Quaffle slip by her, to Slytherin cheers, making the score eighty-to-ten. Still, the Gryffindor crowd, Bill along with them, was screaming itself hoarse, because Gryffindor was seventy points in the lead, and if Charlie caught the Golden Snitch now, Gryffindor would emerge the victor.

Suddenly, Charlie wheeled his broomstick about, bent so low across its handle that he was lying flat upon the wooden stick, and accelerated. Like a bolt of lightning, he shot toward the Slytherin side of the pitch, then urged his broom downward, the Slytherin Seeker hot on his tail, chasing a tiny, glittering ball...Bill watched as his brother somehow flattened himself even more, so that he was smoother than a pancake, and still more aerodynamic, then he removed his hands from his broomstick, and closed his right fist firmly about the Snitch, which he held up, wings flashing about rapidly like a bee's, up to the cheering crowd.

As wave upon wave of crimson supporters poured onto the field from the stands like water cascading upon the shoreline, Bill saw Hooper speeding toward his brother, whom he seized about the neck in a gruff sort of bear hug. The next instant, Denison and Carver had joined the hug with a thump; Angela, Melissa, and Lisa were added to the fray barely a second later. Tangled together in this octopus-hug, the Gryffindor players sank to the ground, as Bill fought his way to the front of the throng, so he could be among the first people to congratulate his sibling.

As soon as Charlie landed, he waved to the group of Gryffindors all trying to pat him and the rest of the team on the back. Then, he exchanged some sort of secret handshake with Matt and Dan, who had elbowed their way to the front of the horde of Gryffindors as Bill had done, before he pivoted upon his brother and wrapped his arms around him for a second. Barely a second later, he became aware of what he was doing, and he pulled away. "Sorry," he apologized, "but I actually did it, Bill! I actually did it! I was afraid for a fraction of a second that the Slytherin Seeker was going to get their first, you know."

"Of course you did it, Charlie," Bill laughed, clapping his brother lightly on the shoulder. "I never doubted that you could win this match for us for a minute. And you made everyone happy. Look, look at McGonagall!" With that, he pointed toward Professor McGonagall, who was sobbing harder even than Hooper, and was wiping her eyes on a gigantic Gryffindor flag.

"I didn't know she could cry," observed Charlie in an awed voice.

"Me neither," Bill grinned. "Come on, let's get back to the common room. We're going to have the best celebration the Gryffindor tower has ever seen, I swear."

The party in the Gryffindor common room went on all day and deep into the night. Two third-year troublemakers disappeared for half an hour or so, and returned carrying trays of food and jugs of pumpkin juice from the house-elves in the kitchen. As they feasted with the rest of their House, the Gryffindor Quidditch team was constantly besieged with pleas to recount their part in the match.

When they finally tired of hearing tales of the game for the umpteenth time, the Gryffindors entertained themselves by juggling with trays, and hosting wizard chess and Exploding Snap tournaments. In fact, the Gryffindor party would have lasted much longer if Professor McGonagall had not appeared in her unfashionable tartan dressing gown and hair net at one in the morning to insist that they all go to bed. Grumbling, Bill, Chris, Mike, and the rest of the Gryffindors, trudged up their separate stairwells to their dormitories. He had barely climbed into bed and pulled the hangings around the four-poster, when he heard several feet charging past his dormitory.

"Cool, we're carrying on," observed Mike, throwing back his covers and climbing out of bed, as the rest of his dorm-mates slipped out of bed, and raced down the spiral staircase, a stream of Gryffindor boys on their heels and before them, and reached the Gryffindor common room, which was fitfully illuminated with the dying embers of the once raging fire. The din caused by the lads who had returned and were now discussing the match exuberantly awakened the girls, who began descending from their spiral steps as well.

"You know what we didn't do last time?" Angela asked of the common room as a whole as she arrived with Chasers Melissa and Lisa on her left and right sides.

"What?" inquired Melissa.

"Listen to music and dance," returned Angela, flouncing over to the radio in the corner, and fiddling with the dial for a moment, before settling on a station that got decent reception and played reasonably modern tunes. Everyone chuckled guiltily with the fiendish sense of bonding that develops between a group when all of its members are aware that they are breaking the rules and disobeying orders, and began to dance, singing along to every song the radio played. As they became bolder due to not being discovered, Gryffindors slowly turned the dial up, so that the volume increased gradually, at such subtle intervals and by different people each time, with no set plan, that nobody really recognized that the music was getting louder and might wake up some other occupants in the castle.

Unfortunately, the volume of their music must indeed have awoken somebody, for Professor McGonagall stormed back into the common room a little more than two hours after the resurrected celebration had commenced, slamming the portrait door so irately behind her that several first-years emitted whimpering noises, and a large population of the older pupils flinched as well. As she took an imperious step forward, the Gryffindors automatically cleared a path for her that would have been wide enough for a woman twenty times her size.

Her nostrils flaring, she marched over to the wireless, and switched it off before staring like a wrathful eagle at her House. "I expect students in my House to conduct themselves with more maturity and consideration of others. If you care nothing for your own sleep, then you ought to permit other occupants of this institution to get their rest, which means that you may not host parties deep into the night—actually, the early morning—like this, and you certainly, may not have music blaring at this hour." Her eyes sought out the prefects, who prudently were cowering in the back of the room, hoping to be concealed by the masses. "What did I say when I came barging in here at one o'clock in the morning?"

"To get to bed, Professor," murmured the prefects dully in unison.

"And I suppose none of you felt compelled to ensure that my commands were carried out, or even felt the overwhelming urge to follow my orders yourselves, despite the fact that you're intended to serve as an example to your fellow students!" she raged, and the prefects all mumbled apologies, watched sympathetically by their fellows, who clearly felt that it was unfair to blame the whole affair on a handful of people. Satisfied that the prefects were sufficiently chastised, she made her lecture applicable to the average Gryffindor. "As hard as it may be for you lot to believe, I'm as delighted as any of you that Gryffindor has one the Cup..." Now her eyes found the members of the Gryffindor team, and, maybe it was Bill's imagination, but he thought they rested on Charlie for an extra second or two. "But this is getting utterly ridiculous. It's three in the morning, and you all need to get to sleep!" She pointed coldly at the two steps that led up to the dormitories. "Now, get to bed this instant, all of you, and if I have to come back here to break up another party, anyone present will receive detention."

She watched as the Gryffindor boys and girls dispersed, and went up their different stairwells, so, Bill presumed, that she could be sure that her students complied with her orders this time. Within minutes after lying down in his soft, warm four-poster bed, Bill fell asleep, and the sound of Mike's snores soon filled the dormitory. No feet thundering down the spiral staircase disturbed them now, and Bill slept until ten o'clock the next morning.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: This one is rather short, but hopefully it's sort of sweet. Anyway, it was going to have more to it, but then I realized that Percy didn't start at Hogwarts until the next year (according to Lexicon, anyway, which is what I tend to go by) and that messed up my plans, so it's not my longest one ever, but it's still another chapter in Bill's life. (Yeah, that was a lame pun.) If you can find something that says Percy actually does start at Hogwarts when Bill is in his fifth year tell me, so I can add more to this, if not it will probably go unaltered.

Reviews: More than welcome. I reply as soon as I can, and as nicely as I can.

Prefect Duties

"Bill!" Charlie's rough hands shook fifteen-year-old Bill from his dream, which had been a pleasant one that involved his present Ravenclaw girlfriend Christine, and was not one he appreciated having interrupted.

"What do you want, Charlie?" he groaned, rolling over, pulling the sheet over his head, and wrapping his pillow around his ears to muffle the other lad's voice, because it was much too early for shouts or noise of any kind. "Mind you, it better be something important, like that our house is about to be burned to cinders, or I might very well commit homicide."

"We've got our Hogwarts letters."

"You've obviously mistaken me for somebody who gives a damn." Bill lowered his light blanket slightly, so that he could glare at his sibling with the necessary combination of ire and incredulity. "Are you telling me that you woke me up at this ludicrously early hour just to tell me that my Hogwarts booklist has arrived?" As soon as he had finished asking this, he disappeared beneath the cover once more.

"Get up, you lazy prat," bossed Charlie, yanking off his brother's sheet, which caused the other boy to curse, and cover his eyes against the shafts of morning light piercing through the blinds. "Mum wants you in the kitchen."

As he trailed his sibling out of the bedroom they shared, Bill wanted to know, "Why does she want to see me? She can open my booklist all by herself, she doesn't need my permission or anything."

"Oh, don't worry about that, she's already opened both of our booklists," Charlie informed him as they thundered side-by-side down the steps to the kitchen.

"Then what does she want with me?"

Before Charlie could reply, they entered the kitchen, where the rest of the family was eating the Sunday morning breakfast of bacon and eggs at the crowded table. When he spotted his eldest son, Mr. Weasley remarked seriously, "You're in big trouble, young man." The stern expression he was striving to cultivate was marred by the wrinkles of merriment highlighting his sparkling eyes.

"You really are," commented George earnestly.

"Yes, you're a disgrace, a disgrace to the entire family," added Fred with severity.

"Be quiet. If you lot were half as funny as you think you are, you'd be twice as funny as you really are," snarled Mrs. Weasley. "Besides, it's not a laughing matter." Her mood shifted abruptly as she fixed a beam upon her oldest child. "Oh, Billy, you've been made a prefect!"

"Huh?" was the only word Bill had breath enough to express before he was enveloped in a crushing squeeze by his mother, and all the oxygen left him in a gigantic gust. After realizing that she might suffocate her offspring, Molly pulled away, and pinned a badge with an enormous P superimposed upon a Gryffindor lion to his pajama top, tears shining in her eyes like stars glittering in the midnight sky.

"Doesn't that look distinguished?" she demanded, puffing herself up like a proud pigeon.

"Probably looks better on Hogwarts robes, which its meant to go on," Bill suggested, grinning, which prompted his mother to embrace him again.

"I'm just so proud of you, Bill! You could end up Head Boy― prefect is just the first step!" This assertion was greeted with retching noises from the dreadful duo. Fortunately, their mum did not notice this, because she had begin kissing Bill all over his face, which was not something he appreciated, and he gently extricated himself from her clutches.

When her son had liberated himself, Mrs. Weasley inquired breathlessly, "What'll it be then, dear?"

"Sorry?" Bill's tone was blank.

"You've got to have a reward!" Mrs. Weasley declared fondly, and her husband nodded in affirmation. "How about a brand new set of dress robes, or your very own owl?"

For a long moment, there was silence as Bill considered this offer. The prospect of new dress robes was appealing, certainly. Just once, he would like to be able to wear something fashionable to a party. But then he thought how nice it would be to communicate with his friends and girlfriend during breaks without having to worry about Errol collapsing mid-delivery, or working out an alternating schedule of who got to use the owl with Charlie, who, unfortunately, also had friends he wanted to write.

Then, his eyes rested on his mum, and, unbidden, an image of her gazing wistfully at a pair of sparkling cerulean dragon hide gloves in Madam Malkin's dominated his mind and senses. Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. His mother had sacrificed so much for him and his siblings, and she never asked for any present, or spent any money on herself, as far as Bill could remember, and, on a whole, he thought his memory was pretty accurate, at least when it came to recollecting random facts.

"I want you to go out to Diagon Alley and buy something for yourself for once, Mum," he responded at last, and all the occupants of the kitchen stared at him. Whatever they had anticipated, this clearly was not it.

"But, dear, I couldn't possibly… I mean, it's very sweet of you…But I want you to have a gift that will make you happy as a reward for being made a prefect," Mrs. Weasley faltered.

"Seeing you happy will make me happy. When someone we love is happy, we're happy, too, and when someone we love is upset, we're upset, too." Bill shrugged his shoulders languidly. "It's that simple, when you think about it."

"Oh, well…If you're sure….I'd better head to Diagon Alley to get school things for you and Charlie." Mrs. Weasley patted her eldest boy on the cheek before she went upstairs to prepare for a shopping expedition.

"You're growing up, Bill, and you're growing up well," remarked Mr. Weasley, squeezing the shoulder of the addressed affectionately as he crossed over to the sink to wash his dishes.

"Thanks," Bill grinned. Then he and Charlie dashed upstairs to change out of their pajamas, deciding that they wished to eat their breakfast after they had changed.

"How come you've always got to make me look bad?" complained Charlie as he tugged on a pair of blue jeans.

"What nonsense are you yammering on about now?" Bill asked as he pulled a T-shirt over his head.

"I would've asked for a new broomstick, in your place."

"Nah, you wouldn't have. That's just what you think until you're actually in that position, but when you're actually in that situation, nobility and all that rubbish overcomes everything else, and you discover you don't really want that much, that you're quite content with your life as it is, and that you wouldn't trade it for anything."

Charlie rolled his eyes, but did not contest this pronouncement.


	19. Chapter 19

Career Advice

"You have your career advice meeting in five minutes, don't you?" Chris demanded of Bill Weasley as they arrived in the common room after History of Magic. He, Mike, and Bill plopped into the best chairs by the fire, because most of the Gryffindors were on the grounds or in the library during break.

"That's right." Bill nodded gloomily as he scooped up a pamphlet on a career in training security trolls, saw what it was about, and chucked it back down on the table again. Instead, he picked up a brochure on work in the Misuse of Magic Office, even as he muttered, "I don't much fancy a career in the Ministry."

"It seems like you don't much fancy a career in anything," observed Chris dryly as Bill, ignoring this, threw down the Misuse of Magic manual and picked up another one about a career in St. Mungo's Hospital, which he skimmed over, and laid down as well.

"Oh, what's the use? I've looked through all these a million times, and I haven't found anything!" Bill exploded. Not accustomed to such displays of temper from their usually calm friend, Mike and Chris looked uncomfortable.

Finally, Chris suggested, "You could become an Auror."

"Yeah, your grades are good enough," contributed Mike.

"That's at the Ministry, my stupid companions, and I already told you fools that I don't want to join the Ministry. Keep talking, someday you might say something halfway intelligent, but I won't get my hopes up," Bill snapped irritably. As soon as he said it, he felt guilty. He should not be taking his inability to find a career path out on his friends.

"Sorry, I shouldn't be treating you guys like this, because my problem has nothing to do with either of you," he apologized before either of them could retort and turn the whole affair into a spat. "I'll just head off to my career advice session now. McGonagall will be pleased if I arrive early, and I'll need all the brownie points I can get since I have no idea what the hell I want to do with my life, and all the teachers have been telling us to figure it out since September."

"You've tried, nobody could say you haven't," Mike reassured him swiftly.

"And you've had more than the rest of us have to worry about," Chris stated rationally, "what with twelve subjects, and prefect duties."

"Thanks, but you know I can't tell McGonagall that, she hates excuses." Bill rose, reached for his satchel out of habit, realized he wouldn't be needing it, stopped mid-motion, and made his way over to the portrait hole, where he pivoted about to face his buddies. "See you later, mates."

Far too soon for his liking, he arrived outside Professor McGonagall's study. Deciding that he could not put this meeting off, and that he might as well get this ordeal over with as soon as possible, he raised his fist and knocked on the door.

"Come in," Professor McGonagall's voice sounded clearly through the oak door.

After taking a deep breath to steel himself for the worst, Bill opened the door, and entered the office. "Ah, Mr. Weasley, I've been expecting you. Be seated, please." She gestured at a hard, straight-backed oak desk across from her.

Even though it did not seem particularly comfortable, especially compared to the squashy armchair he had just left, he decided it would be impolite to refuse, and, anyway, it would be even more agonizing to stand through what promised to be a long meeting, and he took the offered seat. Still, he couldn't help but ponder why the Transfiguration teacher would not go to the bother of Transfiguring the uncomfortable chair into something a little easier on the rear, or why, at the very least, she did not work such a spell on her own chair.

"Well," she began as soon as his behind had landed in the seat, "I trust you know why you're here."

Yes, of course he understood why he was here. Like everyone else, he could read the bloody sign that had been pinned on the notice board announcing that all the fifth-years would have a career advice session with their Head of House and that had provided the dates and times of individual meetings. And of course he had been lucky enough to get a meeting during break, instead of during class. His exasperation with the whole process was increased by the fact that he did not see why he had to decide what career he wished to pursue now, when he had two more years of schooling to go.

"Yes, I'm here to receive career advice in this short meeting that I'm required to attend, in which I'll be given the opportunity to discuss my future career with my Head of House, namely you, Professor." Bill stole the words almost verbatim from the memo just to prove to her that he had read it. Immediately after the last word came out, he regretted it, because he did not think she would appreciate sass. Indeed, the sides of her mouth twitched upward in an expression he could not fathom.

"It's nice to see that all the information you've been required to memorize this year, Weasley, has not been enough for you, which is why you've taken to memorizing announcements. Now, since you seem to have a clue why you're here, let's get down to business, shall we?" As she proposed as much, she shoved several pamphlets into her desk drawer so that she could have more elbow room. "What career are you considering pursuing when you graduate?"

Here was the moment he'd been dreading. "I don't know," he confessed, almost incoherently, biting his lip. He'd never arrived unprepared for a lesson, and this was infinitely worse than that could be. Why did he have to be a Gryffindor? Why couldn't he have been a Ravenclaw? Flitwick would have been more understanding…

"I beg your pardon?" Professor McGonagall frowned, certain she had misheard, because, after all, Bill had never before neglected to do his homework before.

"I don't know―I mean, I haven't decided yet," he repeated a little more clearly, studying the floor. Why did they have to learn Disapparation in the sixth year instead of the fifth?

"But all your professors advised to consider your career plans in September if you hadn't already done so."

"I did consider what I wanted to do, and I read all those pamphlets that were in the common room and everything, but I just feel drawn to anything, Professor. I don't want to work in the Ministry like my father, I don't want to be a Healer, and I don't want to train security trolls."

She nodded. "I see, well that eliminates some options, doesn't it? Now, tell me, what subjects do you enjoy?"

"I'm not bad at any subject―I always get top grades on all my exams," he answered blankly.

"As you are a prefect, and are therefore intended to serve as an example to other students, I hope that your grades are never anything less than excellent," she replied sternly. "I didn't ask about your marks. I have them all in folder―" she held up a scarlet folder full of what must have been his academic records― "here for reference. I asked about what subjects you enjoyed. I'll ask again, what subjects do you like best?"

"Transfiguration, of course, Professor," he supplied quickly, ever the flatterer.

"Be honest, Bill." The addressed almost died of astonishment at her almost gentle tone and her employment of his nickname, which he had not even thought she knew. "If you don't tell me the truth, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Imagine how miserable you'll be if you're stuck in a career you despise."

"But aren't aptitude and enjoyment the same thing, Professor?" He had no clue why people thought he was so intelligent. His brain was about to explode at the moment.

"No, they aren't, although many students enjoy subjects they have an aptitude for, which perhaps explains your confusion. However, some find they're not good at what they enjoy, and others take no pleasure in what their good at."

"Oh," Bill sighed thoughtfully. After a moment, he inquired, "Can I have more than one favorite subject?"

"I don't see why not as we're discussing a matter of personal preference."

"Then my favorites are Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor."

Professor McGonagall drummed her fingers absently on her desk. "Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Defense Against the Dark Arts…a unique combination…I wonder, would you mind a career that might require you to live far from England and might force you to travel around the globe?"

"No," Bill stated, because he would like to get out and explore the world, despite the fact that he would miss his family. "I think I'd actually find it enriching to see the rest of the planet, actually."

"What about a little danger and adventure?"

"Professor, I'm a Gryffindor. An attraction to danger and adventure is our defining attribute."

"Then I suggest you consider a career as a Gringotts Curse-Breaker."

"As a what?" Great, he was confused again.

"A Curse-Breaker. Someone who removes curses from old Wizarding tombs so that Gringotts can get all the riches. It pays well, as it should, given its dangers and the skill it demands." She rummaged in a desk drawer and pulled out a pamphlet, which she thrust at him. "If you're interested, read this."

He leafed through it for several long minutes, then he glanced up at her, grinning. "I always wanted to go to Egypt, Professor, because pyramids are so fascinating. Why wasn't this in the common room?"

"Goblins are very selective about hiring those outside their species, as you'll find, that's why. Speaking of which, they want applicants to have at least six N.E.W.Ts, and nothing under the 'Outstanding' grade. Fortunately, your grades are up to scratch, so you don't have to concern yourself with that as long as you continue to work hard and well. I would advise that you keep taking Arithmany, Ancient Runes, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, obviously. Charms is always a most useful subject, of course, as it has applications in almost every field. History of Magic will provide you with the background knowledge that you'll need to deal with goblins on a regular basis. Potions and Herbology will be helpful in creating slaves and healing solutions, which will undoubtedly be of use in the field. Also, you never know when you'll have to Transfigure something, so I'd recommend Transfiguration. That's more subjects than you need, strictly speaking, but it'll make your application stronger, as such a demanding schedule will impress your potential employers, who will be more likely to hire you if you're well-rounded academically. I won't pretend that it will be easy, but you've demonstrated since you're third year that you can keep a challenging schedule and succeed."

"Yes, Professor."

"So, as long as you attain an 'Outstanding' O.W.L. in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and 'Exceeds Expectations' in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, History of Magic, Herbology, and Tranfiguration, you'll be on the right track to continue to the N. E.W.T.s you wish to take. Given your current averages, I see no reason why that shouldn't happen, as long as you work hard."

"Yes, Professor." Relieved that the ordeal was over, he rose and left.


	20. Chapter 20

O.W.L's

Author's Note: As anyone who had read the entirety of my "Untold Weasley Tales" fanfiction has undoubtedly realized, I have tried to order the chapters in a chronological manner to minimize confusion for both the reader and the writer. However, this chapter is a tad bit of an exception, in that some of it will transpire prior to Chapter 19, and some of it after Chapter 19. For that reason, and, because O.W.L's are such a major chapter in any young witch or wizard's life, I decided to dedicate a whole chapter to this. After all, combining "Career Advice" and "O.W.L's" is like combining "College Search" and "S.A.T/ A.C.T." (Those of you who aren't American might not appreciate that argument, and some of you that are might not either, but since I do, that's how it's going to be ordered.)

Thanks Skippy Agogo for some suggestions that I followed.

Reviews: Anyone who reviews gets an "Outstanding" grade. I generally take all suggestions and corrections I receive, unless it's truly random like "I think you should have Dumbledore blow up Hogwarts."

Disclaimer: If you think its mine, see a psychologist immediately.

By the time his fifth-year at Hogwarts commenced, Bill Weasley had never really considered O.W.L's, nor had he thought much about the impact that this rigorous exam would have on his life after school, which, coincidentally, he had not contemplated much, either. In fact, it was not until he slid into his desk alongside Chris and Mike for first period Potions on their first day of lessons in his fifth-year that he began to consider them at all. Unfortunately, once they entered his life, they were reluctant to leave it.

"Quiet," ordered Snape coolly, snapping the dungeon door authoritatively behind him as he entered the classroom after all his students had filed in, despite the fact that nobody had been talking or even fidgeting, because no one was dumb enough to wish to attract the Potion master's attention.

"Before today's lesson starts," commented Snape in his greasy voice that perfectly matched his grease-coated hair, as he swept like an enlarged bat over to his desk, and fixed his pupils with his nastiest look, "I find it necessary to remind the idiots in this room that in June they will be taking a very important examination. In this examination, these fools will have the invaluable opportunity to demonstrate just how hollow their heads are. However, I don't expect anyone to choose to display their ignorance in Potions, rather I require that you all prove that you have learned at least an adequate amount about the composition and employment of magical potions. That being said, my students will scrape 'acceptables' at the minimum in this subject, or I will be most displeased." Snape's gaze lingered on those he deemed particularly inept at the art of creating potions for a moment, and Bill was relieved to note that he was not among them, before the lecture resumed.

"Of course, an 'acceptable' is by no means enough to secure you a position in my N.E.W.T Potions class, as I refuse to take any save the best and the brightest into my N.E.W.T class, so many of us will have to say a heart-wrenching adieu." His lip curled at the Gryffindors as he expressed this, as if determined to convey that he had been employing sarcasm, in case they had doubted it. Many of the Gryffindors glared boldly back at their least favorite teacher, and Bill suppressed a grin at the notion of dropping Potions after just one more year of the horrid nightmare of a subject.

"Luckily, though, we have one more year before such a tragedy occurs," Snape concluded softly, "during which time I will do my best to prepare even the most obtuse occupants of this room for their O.W.L, and I demand that all my students put forward that same degree of effort I do. Therefore, today we shall brew a potion that often appears in the Ordinary Wizarding Level, which, in case you've been living under a rock for the past five years, is what the O.W.L stands for. The potion is called the Draught of Peace, and, as its name implies, it calms anxiety and soothes agitation. It also happens to be a sensitive potion, which means that if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients, you will put whoever is stupid enough to drink it into a deep, possibly irreversible, sleep. Of course, this means that you will need to attend closely to what you are doing, something many of you have a problem doing."

With that final piece of advice, he flicked his wand at the blackboard, where the ingredients list and directions appeared, then pointed it at the store cupboard, whose door sprung open, and announced that they had half an hour in which to complete the task.

If the O.W.L. was indeed anything like concocting the Draught of Peace, as Snape had informed them, Bill decided that there was no reason for him to even go to the immense bother of sitting the exam, because he would undoubtedly fail it dismally, anyhow. It turned out that Snape had never assigned them a more challenging potion, and he had set them many difficult ones in the past, for the components had to be added to the mess in the cauldron in exactly the right order and quantity, the mixture had to be stirred precisely the right number of times in clockwise, then counterclockwise directions, and the heat of the flames on which the potion simmered had to be lowered to the correct level for a prescribed number of minutes before the final ingredient could be dumped in.

"A light silver vapor should be emerging from your potion," announced Snape when there were only five minutes left in the period.

Sweating profusely from the heat of the fire over which his potion bubbled combined with the exertion of mixing such a sensitive potion, Bill eyed his work critically as he stepped away from his cauldron, as his classmates did the same. He noted that his concoction was the correct shade, but seemed to have not intention of emitting vapor of any sort. Shrugging, he glanced about the classroom to evaluate his results as compared to those of his peers. Chris' potion was the sheen of blackberry jam, and issuing copious amounts of dark gray steam, and Bill wondered if that indicated that his friend had been more or less successful than he had. Looking to his right, he noticed that Mike's was spitting out vibrant green sparks, and several Slytherins had made potions that had the consistency of newly made cement. Nobody, it appeared, had succeeded in the endeavor.

Snape sneered around at them all, as if their failure to achieve the desired outcome in no way reflected his teaching abilities, and snapped at them to put a sample of their potions in flagons, label it legibly with their names, and place it on his desk, before assigning them a lengthy essay on the uses of moonstones in potion-making.

That afternoon's double Charms was almost as horrible, although cheery Professor Flitwick could never rival Snape's austerity, in all fairness to both professors. Still, Flitwick did manage to waste the first twenty minutes of the lesson making them all anxious about the O.W.L. they would all fail once June, which suddenly seemed very close in Bill's perspective, came around.

"What you must always keep in the forefront of your mind during this critical year," squeaked minuscule Professor Flitwick from his perch atop his pile of books, which permitted him to see his pupils over his desk, "is that these examinations are very important as they may influence your futures for many years to come! Speaking of your futures, if you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so, not later. In the meantime, of course, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice in Charms!"

After this pronouncement, Flitwick spent the remaining hour reviewing Summoning Charms, which, according to Flitwick, were bound to make an appearance in their O.W.L. When he learned this, Bill felt slightly more optimistic about his odds of passing his Charms O.W.L., because he had never found Summoning Charms particularly challenging. Unfortunately, though, this optimism was doomed to be short-lived, for Flitwick was considerate enough to end the lesson by setting them the most Charms homework they had ever received, something that the class greeted with resounding groans.

It was lucky that Bill had not been relying on Transfiguration, which they had next, to brighten his day, because it was worse in Transfiguration than in Charms, although McGonagall was not as terrible as Snape, at least.

"You cannot pass an O.W.L.," ruled Professor McGonagall grimly, as if she was telling them all that their beloved cousin had met an untimely and gruesome end, "without three crucial things. Would anyone care to hazard a guess as to what these three are?"

"Luck, bribery, and well-honed cheating skills," Bill whispered to Chris and Mike, who both put their hands to their mouths to conceal broad grins, not wanting to gain McGongall's enmity so early in the term. "It's organized by the Ministry, after all."

McGonagall shot them a warning, reproving look, glaring pointedly at Bill's prefect badge, and then called on a Ravenclaw girl, Sarah Jones, who was bouncing up and down in the front row, and whom Bill had never been fond of, because she was a know-it-all. "Yes, Miss Jones?"

"Professor, you can't pass an O.W.L. without serious application, dedicated practice, and committed study," Sarah replied promptly, her voice automatic, as if she was reciting from a text. Indeed, it seemed as if she had been, for she finished smugly, glancing witheringly at the rest of the class, "I read about it in _Five Fail Safe Ways to Perfect O.W.L. Scores _over the summer."

"Exactly, anyone who wishes to do their best on their O.W.L must apply themselves, practice often, and study on a regular basis," Professor McGonagall confirmed, and Brian and Jason yawned slightly, garnering themselves a reproachful glare from McGonagall, who plowed on, "That being established, I see no earthly reason why every being here cannot attain an O.W.L in Transfiguration if they put in the work."

This was greeted by disbelieving snorts from Brian and Mike, both of whom did not count Transfiguration as a subject in which they were proficient.

"Yes, boys, I said everyone, and that's precisely what I meant," she insisted. "Nobody's work is so abysmal that they cannot get an 'acceptable', if they try hard enough. Anyway, today we start on Vanishing Spells. Although they are markedly simpler to perform than Conjuring Spells, which you would not generally attempt until N.E.W.T level, they are among the most complex magic that you will be tested upon in your O.W.L."

Sadly, she was correct in this assessment, because Bill discovered within minutes after his first attempt that Vanishing Spells were unjustifiably difficult. By the end of the lesson, Bill's snail, which he had been trying to vanish, was still solidly and stubbornly present on his desk, although it did look a tad bit paler when he cocked his head to the left, although this was probably merely an optical illusion. The only consolation was the fact that nobody had done better. However, this was not enough to cheer him, because McGonagall told them to practice the spell overnight for tomorrow's lesson, and assigned them a paper on Vanishing Spells.

By the end of the week, Bill had endured similar lectures in Arithmany, Defense Against the Dark Arts, where they had a new teacher, who seemed moderately competent, Herbology, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Ancient Runes. In fact, only in Divination and History of Magic did he not have to suffer through such a recital. This was the case because Trelawney considered her subject too sacred for the mundane realm of tests, and was convinced that grades did not indicate the presence of the "Inner Eye," which Bill was sure did not actually exist, as he had never learned how to make a prediction, just how to fudge the work enough to earn top grades. In History of Magic, it was simply a product of the fact that Binns had not jotted down in his notes, which he read aloud to his pupils every lesson, anything related to O.W.L's, so he did not even think to mention them.

Bill quickly determined that this was his most stressful year ever at Hogwarts, for he was assigned a load of homework every lesson, and the magic required of him was ore demanding than ever before. Then, he noted bitterly, there was the added bonus of his prefect duties, which meant he was patrolling corridors at absurd hours for Filch, and spending half his breaks overseeing students who wanted to take their breaks in unused classrooms, because the weather was becoming increasingly unpleasant as the school year progressed.

Although each day passed in a mind-numbingly slow fashion, because of the tedious labor that filled each one from the early hours of the morning until deep into the night, time still managed to fly by, and before Bill knew what had hit him, the Christmas holidays had arrived, and Bill and Charlie returned home to the Burrow. However, even the break provided him with little chance of relaxation, because his teachers had given him the present of tons of homework, and suggested that the holiday was an invaluable opportunity to study yet more for the O.W.L.

For this reason, Bill sat alone in the kitchen, trying to hammer the difference between 'eihwaz' and 'ehwaz' into his brain, which kept disengaging from the task, his textbooks, quills, and parchment arrayed in mountains around him. Meanwhile, every member of his family went into the living room to decorate the evergreen, which had been cut down by Mr. Weasley and the twins the day before, and listen to Celestina Warbeck's annual Christmas Eve broadcast, which, according to Mrs. Weasley, "There was no Christmas Eve without."

Personally, Bill had never been a fan of Celestina Warbeck, and his dislike was only increased when he found that her shrill, sing-song voice interfered with his studying, which aggravated him all the more. As such, he was not himself when Charlie stuck his head into the kitchen.

"What do you want?" he snapped at his little brother, who stiffened haughtily at his tone.

"I don't want anything, Dad does. He wants you to join the rest of us in the living room as Christmas is a time for family," Charlie educated him heatedly from the doorway. "Myself, I hope you don't. You haven't been very much fun this year, you know."

"Then you'll be delighted, because I'm not going anywhere," retorted Bill, trying to write his Ancient Runes essay while he engaged in this conversation.

Charlie hesitated. "Dad wants you to come out of your shell, and come into the living room with the rest of us."

"Maybe later." Bill scrawled a sentence on his essay, not bothering to look at his sibling, figuring that if he ignored the other boy, Charlie would drop the bone of contention, and depart.

"Dad said now," persisted Charlie.

"Wonderful. Tell Dad that if he wants me to do anything, he can go to the tremendous trouble of sending me himself, instead of sending a little messenger boy." Bill wrote another sentence in his essay.

"Take that back. I'm not a messenger boy, least of all yours," scowled Charlie, "and I won't tell Dad any such thing. Take your own stupid message."

Bill threw a textbook at him. "I don't care, frankly. Just go away, you're bothering me."

Charlie ducked the tome, and stomped out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. For a moment, Bill was alone in the kitchen, before his father arrived, crossed over to the table, and seated himself in the chair across from him.

"Charlie claims you threw a book at him," Mr. Weasley observed mildly.

Still not glancing up from his paper, Bill responded indifferently, "It didn't hit him, and, anyway, the boy plays Quidditch, and Bludgers bang into him all the time, so a textbook shouldn't hurt that much." Despite his words, he felt guilty about losing his temper with Charlie, because Charlie was right, Bill had not been as much fun at school lately. He would have to resolve that with his little brother sometime. Great, another thing to add to his priority list, which he did not even have the time to sort out.

"I see, charming sentiments, Bill," Mr. Weasley replied dryly, gently dislodging the quill from his son's right hand. "Come on, join us in the living room now. Ginny keeps asking for you."

Scowling because he recognized that the mention of his sister was calculated to make him feel remorseful for locking himself up in solitude, Bill picked up a different quill from his pile, and continued to write his essay. "I'd love to, but I'm afraid I can't, because I've got to study. Grades are important, Dad."

"You can study in the living room, I'll help you."

"Really?" Bill eyed his parent dubiously.

"Sure," Mr. Weasley answered, grabbing his son's copy of _The Habits of British_ _Muggles_ from his stack of schoolbooks, "I'll quiz you, shall I?"

Rolling his eyes, because of course his dad would select the Muggle Studies text, since nothing in the world captivated him like Muggle culture did, Bill shrugged languidly, but still did not cease working on his paper, deciding that he could multi-task. "Fine, if you want to."

"How do airplanes stay up?"

"That's not in there, and you know it, Dad," Bill snarled, throwing down his quill in exasperation with the whole scenario.

"Maybe not, but it should be," Mr. Weasley answered calmly, "it's fascinating, something everyone would want to know."

"No, it's something that only you would find interesting, and something that only you care about finding out," Bill grumbled irritably.

As he leafed through his child's textbook, Arthur seemed to ignore this acidic comment, for all he said was, "Isn't that lovely? They've got pictures of Muggle blenders and television sets in here! May I have this?"

"Certainly when I'm done with my O.W.L, but until then I'd like it back so I could study from it, because I don't want to fail." Bill snatched the book out of his father's hand.

"I've reached the conclusion that Charlie is right, young man, you are best left alone in this state," Mr. Weasley remarked coldly, rising, and walking toward the living room. At the threshold, he pivoted to add, "I think it's rather good that you're not spending Christmas Eve with the rest of us, Bill, because it seems that in your mood, you'll only spoil everyone else's fun."

As his father left him, Bill scowled, and griped, "I'm not a spoil-sport, I'm not. I'm cool." It wasn't his fault that his professors saw fit to give him an insane work load. Still, he definitely had power over his own existence, and he could take responsibility for how he treated others, which was ultimately the most critical factor in how others perceived him, and he had been curt and cruel with his brother and father, and that was unacceptable. He would have to make it up to them, he realized, because, after all, who was dumb enough to want to spend Christmas working in isolation on homework?

Smiling, he walked over to the counter, grabbed one of his mother's cookbooks, and rifled through until he found a recipe for sugar cookies, which was everyone's favorite. While they baked, he mashed up some candy cane for a topping, and when they were done baking, he sprinkled the fragments on the cookies, and then joined the rest of the family in the living room, bearing a batch of freshly baked treats in his hands.

Grinning, Fred and George pounced on the tray at once, and grabbed two cookies each before their mother could scold them. Rolling his eyes at the twins' antics, Bill offered one each to Ginny and Ron, who nibbled on theirs. As he took one, Charlie conceded, "Alright, I lied, you still can be cool at times."

"Fair enough," Bill smiled. He glanced at his dad. "I chose to join you, after a fashion. I can't study with Celestina blaring, anyhow."

"I'm glad you did," Mr. Weasley grinned, biting into a cookie, which crumbled instantly, causing his wife to run into the kitchen to fetch them all tea platters and napkins, yelling about how they all needed saucers, before they dirtied her whole floor.

The next thing he knew, he was back at Hogwarts, working like a lunatic, again. Then, it was time for the Easter holidays, which were even less fun than their predecessor, the Christmas vacation, as fifth-years were handed even more homework, and urged to practice still more. The only upshot of the holiday was that he could constantly fortify himself on chocolate eggs, and Charlie, who as a third-year had considerably less work, agreed to help him study when he wasn't busy playing Quidditch with Fred and George, while Ginny watched them.

When the school started again, a notice announcing that all fifth-years were scheduled to receive career advice from their Heads of House in private meeting was pinned on the bulletin board in the common room. Translated, this meant that Bill and his year-mates had the new challenge of finding time in their busy days to read the career pamphlets that had been placed in the Gryffindor tower for fifth-years to pursue during their "leisure hours," something he was suspected did not actually exist, at least not for him, or any of his friends. In the end, he emerged from this meeting with insanely high goals for his O.W.L. results, which only increased his pre-exam anxiety.

After this meeting, he redoubled his study hours, so that he was putting in at least five hours a day, although this looked small compared to the seven hours Sarah Jones, who had taken to interrogating everyone about their study habits while they queued up outside lessons, and she, too, was a prefect, so the fact that he had prefect duties he was supposed to attend to was not responsible for the disparity.

Somehow, it was suddenly the week before O.W.L.'s and all Bill's lessons were devoted to reviewing the material professors were convinced was most likely to show up in their examinations, although all students were encouraged to see teachers after class with any questions they had to clarify information prior to the test, ad Professor McGonagall was copying the test schedule on the blackboard in their last Transfiguration class before the O.W.L.s , and they were all recording it on their parchments.

Bill, and the others, all listened attentively as she informed them that their O.W.L.'s were spread over two consecutive weeks, so that they would have a weekend in between to "relax," which he took to mean look over notes more. He also learned that theory exams occurred in the morning, while practical ones took place in the afternoon, except, of course, for Astronomy, which was done at midnight. He lost interest as she reminded them sternly that Anti-Cheating Charms had been placed on all examination papers, because he was not a cheat. Similarly, he was not distressed to hear that Auto-Answer Quills, Remembralls, and Self-Correcting Ink were not permitted in the Great Hall while tests were happening, since he could not afford such luxuries.

Their first exam, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for that Monday, and Bill managed to convince Chris to study Charms with him after lunch on Sunday. However, that little study group did not last long, because, for some reason, he felt very agitated, as if his answers and definitions were incomplete, even though Chris was constantly reassuring him that they were perfectly correct and complete. Therefore, he was continually yanking his textbook back from Chris, who became steadily more irritated by this obnoxious behavior as the afternoon wore on, taunting them all with the lovely weather outside. Finally, he lost any semblance of patience when Bill accidentally smacked his nose with the spine of _Achievements in Charming_ when Bill abruptly snatched it back to verify a definition for Summoning Charms.

"For heaven's sake, Bill, just do it yourself if you want the book in front of you every cursed second! There's no point in my quizzing you if you have the blasted book in front of you," snapped Chris, shoving himself away from the table at which they were reviewing in the common room, rubbing his beet-red nose, and heading off to help Mike, instead.

After what happened to Chris, neither Charlie nor Mike would study with him, so Bill decided to reread five years worth of Charms notes, and recite definitions from The _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_, an endeavor in which he was interrupted mid-way through by Jennifer, his fellow Gryffindor prefect, who suggested that they practice basic locomotion charms by making their pencil cases chase each other around the edge of the table, something that angered some of their classmates, who were trying to read at that table. His dour mood was not brightened when she emerged the victor from the struggle.

Even dinner that night was a subdued affair, as though they were all destined to die the next day. Having studied hard all day long, Chris and Mike did not chat much, no doubt feeling it was unnatural after remaining silent for so long, but consumed massive heaps of food with gusto. On the other hand, Bill was finding it difficult to eat, as his stomach had contracted on him thanks to his nerves. Ah, well, at least he would not be able to vomit in fear, because there was nothing inside him to regurgitate.

"You've got to eat," Mike educated him, "or else you won't sleep a wink tonight, because you'll be so hungry."

"I can't eat," replied Bill tersely, "I'm not hungry. I'm to nervous to be hungry."

"Afraid you'll fail?" snickered Chris, who was obviously still resentful of being whacked in the face with _Achievements in Charming_.

"No, I'm afraid that I won't do as well as someone of my genius should," Bill retorted. "You're confusing us again, Chris, as you're the one who's going to fail, not me."

"Stop it, both of you," Mike stepped in quickly, so that Chris would not have the opportunity to snarl back. "The pair of you will do fine, but, Bill, you'll do notably better if you get a solid night's rest, which you won't get on an empty stomach."

There was enough truth in this verdict that Bill nibbled away at his meal, eventually forcing down approximately half of it. After supper, they headed back up to the common room, where it was an uncomfortable, tense evening. Although everyone was feverishly attempting to cram in some last-minute studying, nobody was getting very far, at least no none that Bill saw was. In the end, Bill gave up the battle to hammer a few last facts into his exhausted brain, and went up to bed early, where he spent many hours lying awake in heavy silence, like the other boys in his dorm, until he fell asleep sometime around midnight.

At breakfast the next day, none of the fifth-year Gryffindors talked as much as they typically did, either. Steph, Jennifer, and Heather were all muttering incantations under their breaths, so that the utensils and salt shakers before them kept twitching as though they were afflicted with epilepsy. Chris was skimming over some notes he had braced against his cereal bowl, trying to shovel cereal into his mouth while he looked over them. Mike kept reaching into his satchel to check some piece of information, frequently knocking over the butter as he did do, and Bill himself was trying to reread his Charms textbook as rapidly as possible.

The study opportunity breakfast provided came to an end much too soon for Bill's fancy, and, while all the other pupils scrambled off to their lessons, the fifth and seventh years milled about in the entrance hall, fiddling with their hair and biting their nails. At half-past nine, they were called forward class by class, to reenter the Great Hall, which was rearranged so thoroughly Bill wondered briefly if he had set foot in the wrong room by mistake, for the four House tables had been removed, replaced by hundreds of desks, which all faced the staff table, where McGonagall stood, facing them. When everyone had settled, and all was quiet, she proclaimed, "You may begin." As she made this announcement, she flipped over the enormous hourglass on the staff table, which was placed near mounds of spare quills, ink bottles, and parchment.

In unison with everybody else in the hall, Bill turned over his test paper, his heart beating at three or four times its usual rate, and focused on the first question: _a) Provide the incantation, and b) describe the wand motion required to make objects fly_. Good, that was not so hard... they had learned that in their first year...Smiling grimly in relief, he scribbled down the answer.

Two hours later, they exited the Great Hall, clutching their exam papers. As they did so, Mike inquired, "That wasn't so bad was it?"

"No, it wasn't nearly as bad as Flitwick made it out to be," Bill agreed.

"Don't go getting too confident, either of you," cut in Chris. "I've heard that Charms is the easiest O.W.L. to pass. I mean, even those two Slytherin boulders in the year before us, got an 'A' on it."

The fifth years ate lunch with the rest of the school, discovering that the House tables had reappeared, and then filed into the small chamber adjacent to the Great Hall, where they were ordered to wait until they were summoned for their practical examination. While handfuls of students were called forward alphabetically, those who remained behind muttered charms, and practiced waving their wands, occasionally jabbing one another in the back or eye by accident.

It was not long until Chris' name was called, and he left the hall trembling with four others whose surnames began with "B," cursing the fact that his last name occurred so early in the alphabet. Pupils who had already been tested were not permitted to return to the chamber afterward, because they might destroy the secrecy of the exam by telling others what had transpired in the Great Hall, so Bill and Mike were unable to find out how he had fared.

"He'll be fine, we'll all be fine," Bill commented soothingly. At that moment, Mike's name was called, and, he added, squeezing his friend's wrist in reassurance, "Best of luck."

"You too," responded Mike, walking off toward the Great Hall, his wand clutched tightly in his fist.

Now Bill was left only with the few stragglers like himself who came at the end of the alphabet. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, they drifted closer together without really being aware of it. Finally, after what seemed like a terribly long time to Bill, Professor Flitwick hollered his name, and he and some others with the letter "W", including Heather, holding his wand loosely in his shaking hand, trying to calm his mind.

"Professor Tofty is free, Weasley," squealed Professor Flitwick from his station just inside the door. He indicated the oldest and baldest examiner of an ancient and balding lot, who was sitting at a flimsy table in the far corner, a short distance away from where Sarah Jones, a Ravenclaw who had always annoyed him, was being tested.

"You're Weasley, then?" inquired Professor Tofty, consulting his papers, and peering disinterestedly over his pince-nez at Bill. Bill could understand his lack of enthusiasm, because it could not be very exciting quizzing bunches of teenagers whom one did not know or care about all day, and the material must indeed be repetitious, although he did wish that his tester was in a good mood, because that would increase his odds of doing well.

"Yes, sir," he answered politely, attempting to sound intelligent. "William Weasley, sir."

Tofty found the name on his list, nodding. Their conversation was interuppted by the sound of wails and screams from Sarah Jones, who was now shouting that she did not want to take this test, and that she could not remember anything, and her brain was about to explode. Although he could not stand the girl, Bill felt a twinge of sympthy for her, because that was what he felt like doing at the moment. Also, he felt a tremor of fear wiggle up and down his spine, because if Sarah, with all her study guide books, could not handle this exam, all hope was gone for him, and he might as well run away from the hall.

Tofty apparently spotted his unease, for he quivered, "Not to worry, young man, not to worry. A handful of students have breakdowns due to pressure every year, but most do just fine. It's only around one or two percent of students that lose control like that. Now, could you just Banish this top hat for me?"

Relaxing slightly because he knew how to do what was requested, Bill did so. On a whole, he thought his practical went well, for he had not confused the incantations for Summoning Charms and Silencing Charms, as he had been afraid he would, because the words were so similar. At dinner, he learned that his best friends thought they had fared well, also, although Mike confessed that he had mixed up the Color-Change and Growth Charms, and Chris admitted that he had somehow caused a platter to mutate into a cabbage.

That night there was no time to relax, because all they fifth-years returned to the common room promptly after supper, and submerged themselves in their Transfiguration notes and textbooks. Went Bill retired that evening, his head felt like a sponge that had soaked in complicated spell models and theories instead of water.

Bill thought that the next morning's Transfiguration theory exam was fine, although he feared that his definition for Switching Spells was not quite complete, and his practical was not that horrible, because McGonagall had prepared them more than adequately for it, at least in his opinion. At any rate, he managed to vanish his whole iguana, unlike Sarah Jones, who lost her had completely at the table next to him, and somehow ended up turning her otter into a skunk that sprayed everyonein the vincintiy, and caused the examination to be stalled for ten minutes while the skunk was removed from the Great Hall, and everyone tried to find perfume or aftershave to coat themselves with, although Bill suspected the endeavor was fruitless, because he was sure that he would always smell faintly like skunk musk . Remembering how Sarah had behaved on their first day of Transfiguration that year, Bill smirked at her bad luck, even though it was also his misfortune. When asked, Mike replied that he thought he had passed, and Chris said he had thought he had done fine.

On Wednesday, they had their Herbology exam, and, although he almost sustained a bite from a Fanged Geranium, and was almost knocked out by a Bouncing Bulb that escpaed his grasp, Bill believed he had done reasonably well, and his friends felt that they had done fine, as well. Similarly, on Thursday's Defense Against the Dark Arts test, Bill was fairly certain he had passed, because he had no problem with the written sections, and had no difficulty performing any of the required counterjinxes and spells during the practical. On Friday, while Chris and Mike lounged in the common room, enjoying their day off, Bill bustled off to his Ancient Runes exam, which he found challenging, because after an hour or so, all the symbols started to blend together until they were indecipherable from one another, and he might indeed have mistranslated "ehwaz" as "eihwaz" or "eihwaz" as "ehwaz", despite all his best efforts not to do so.

Bill spent that Saturday and Sunday preparing for Potions, the test which he, like most of his fellow Gryffindors, was looking forward to least, which was on Monday. As was to be anticipated, he found the written exam the nastiest one he had to complete yet, but the afternoon practical was not as horrid as he had suspected it would be. With Snape absent from the proceedings, they could be far more relaxed that usual while concocting potions, which made him feel like he had been more successful. As such, he was not as troubled as he could have been when Professor Tofty ordered, "Step away from your cauldrons, please, everyone. The examination is over." Along with everybody else, Bill corked his sample flask and departed.

Tuesday's written Care of Magical Creatures exam was not very demanding, because Bill already knew most of the information from listening to Charlie babble on about magical creatures, something he never imagined he would be grateful for. He had no problem in identifying the knarl hidden among the dozen hedgehogs, demonstrating the correct handling of a bowtruckle, a feeding and cleaning a fire-crab without sustaining severe burns, or choosing from a great berth of foods the diet appropriate for an ailing unicorn.

The Astronomy theory examination on Wednesday morning went well, although he forgot one or two of Jupiter's numerous moons. Since they had to wait until that night to take their Astronomy practicals, the afternoon instead was devoted to Divination. having never actually Seen anything before in Divination, Bill had elected to do what he always did on Divination finals: memorize some positive signs for the future in dream interpretation, palmistry, tea leaf reading, and crystal ball gazing, as well as certain bits that would indicate intelligence, or good lucks, and pretend to See them. It had never failed him yet, and it did not in his O.W.L. either. Mike and Chris, who insisted that the whole subject was worthless and that they did not give a hoot if they passed or failed it, had refused to take his advice about memorizing things to pretend to See, and it showed, from what the two boys told him later that night in the common room by the fire while they reviewed Astronomy together.

"I saw nothing in my crystal ball, and all I could tell my examiner was that in the near future, there will be a foggy day," Chris informed him and Mike as they tried to memorize where exactly Venus and Mars could be found during this time of year.

"I told mine that there would be foggy night soon," laughed Mike.

"I told you that you should have done what I did." Bill rolled his eyes. "It gets them every time: hook, line, and sinker."

"I don't care that I've failed," Chris remarked haughtily.

"Neither do I," affirmed Mike. "Although I wish I hadn't mixed up my examiner's life and intelligence lines, and informed her that she ought to have perished ages ago. Funnily enough, I don't think that helped my score."

"No, it probably didn't," Bill agreed, smiling, "but we can't prove that flattery assisted mine until we get our results in July."

Chris shuddered. "Let's not talk about that."

"Yeah, let's talk about something happy, instead," proposed Mike. "We can finally drop that blasted subject. No more having to listen to her babble on about which one of us is going to die before next Tuesday."

"Or lose a close relative, or something equally terrible," added Chris.

"No more reading each other's palms, and no more gazing like lunatic's at each other's tea leaves," Bill completed. "I think I can feel tears coming on." When he finished this gem, he glanced at his watch. "We'd better go down to dinner now...don't want to be tardy for our Astronomy practical."

"And we have to get in a decent meal," Mike reminded him, obviously recollecting the night before their Charms O.W.L when Bill had struggled to eat the food before him.

When they reached the top of the Astronomy tower late that night, they discovered that it was a perfect evening for stargazing, as it was cloudless and still. It would have been tranquil, with the pale moon bathing the grounds in silver and the refreshing air, had they not been about to take an O.W.L. When everyone had readied their telescopes, Professor Marchbanks, the proctor, announced that they could start, and everyone began to scribble upon the chart they were supposed to fill in. Bill wrote in the easy stuff, like the moon and the planets, before returning to the more difficult stuff, like all the other planets' moons, and the constellations. On a whole, he thought this test went pretty well, and from the comments of his peers, they mostly felt the same way.

Yawning, Bill returned to the common room with Chris, Mike, Brian, Jason, Heather, Jennifer, and Stephanie. Angry that he had Arithmancy, which would most likely be a tough test, the next morning, which he would not have the opportunity to study for that evening, Bill collapsed on his bed, and slept deeply.

To his relief, he discovered that his Arithmancy test was not as difficult as he had feared, and he was sure that he had done very well on the History of Magic examination, which they had that afternoon, as a great amount of it related to goblin rebellions, which he had done a considerable bit of background research on, because he found so fascinating. Still, he cheered with the rest when the last exam paper was collected, and he joined the exodus out to the grounds for a celebration in the fresh air, where he, Chris, Mike, Heather, Jennifer, and Stephanie planted themselves on the rim of the lake, planning the party they would have that night in the Gryffindor tower to commemorate the closing of their O.W.L.'s.

After drinking what must have been a gallon of butterbeer, and feasting on Honeydukes chocolate and treats stolen from the house-elves, Bill forgot about O.W.L's until the second to last day in July when he was sitting at the breakfast table with his family, and an owl swooped through the window.

"It's for you, Bill," remarked Mr. Weasley, passing the letter down the table to his eldest child. "Must be your O.W.L results."

"Good luck," Charlie commented as he handed the envelope to his older brother, who opened it with trembling hands.

"Well, if he doesn't do well, it certainly won't be for lack of trying," observed Percy pompously.

"Yeah, he even tried to study on Christmas Eve, the stupid prat," teased Fred and George, wearing identical malevolent grins.

However, Bill hardly heard them, because he was focused solely upon reading his letter, which seemed to be trying to tell him that he had somehow attained twelve perfect O.W.L.s, a fact he was having considerable difficulty accepting, and so he just stared blankly at the parchment, as though it were addressed to someone he had never met. However, one could not long remain silent in the Weasley household if you were the center of attention, which was what Bill was at the moment.

"How'd you do?" Charlie prodded after a few seconds of quiet. "Surely you've read the letter at least twice over by now."

"I did alright, I think," mumbled Bill.

"You think you did fine, what in the world is that supposed to mean?" Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms over her chest sternly. Then she held out her hand, and demanded, "Give me your results, now."

Mutely, Bill offered them to her, and had the pleasure of watching a shocked pleasure fall across her features. "You may think you did fine, but I think you did excellent, dear!" she exclaimed, beaming, as she launched herself across the room to embrace him, and kiss his forehead, the letter still clenched in her fist.

"I'm guessing that Bill's results are nothing to worry about, then, based on your reaction," Mr. Weasley commented as his wife plopped back into her seat, her face scarlet with a sort of excited pride, which was causing Bill to flush as well, something he did not like, because a crimson face clashed horribly with his flaming hair. "Well, how many did he get? Nine? Ten? Eleven?"

"Twelve, Arthur, twelve, isn't that wonderful? What a pleasant surprise!" Realizing that the last remark might be mildly offensive to her eldest son, she added kindly, "Of course I don't mean that I think you're unintelligent, dear, but most people don't get twelve O.W.L's."

"Probably because it's sick," grumbled Charlie, and his older brother glowered at him, feeling that his statement was utterly unnecessary.

"It's more than sick, it's a sign of a mental illness," confirmed Fred.

"Yeah, conformism," George elaborated, waving his fork about expansively, as if to illustrate his point, "the worst of all possible mental diseases, as it slowly destroys true thought and individualism."

These avowals were met with a severe scowl from their mother. "It is now such thing, boys, and you know it. Rather, it is an achievement in which Bill can take pride."

"That's exactly right, Mother," agreed Percy in his usual dignified and stiff manner. "With grades like that, Bill could go into any career he shows, which, of course means, that his grades will not hinder his ambitions."

"Thanks, Perce." As soon as he was sure that he would not snort in amusement, Bill raised his goblet of pumpkin juice in a toast. "I never even thought about it that way, but I will be certain to now."

Now Mrs. Weasley directed her frown at Bill, which was a turn of events he was not to delighted about. "Surely that's not true, Bill? Surely you've considered what you want to do once you've graduated?"

"Of course I've considered it, Mum," he informed her, a tad defensively, "I've looked at the pamphlets, and had a career consultation with McGonagall, who was actually surprisingly helpful, and we narrowed it down remarkably." He decided against explaining to her that he had selected a dangerous career that would require him to live far from home in a foreign land, a dual blow. When he had to cross that particular hurdle, he would have the conversation first with his father, who would not dissolve into waterworks, or shatter his eardrums with shrieks, or possibly do both.

"Wouldn't it be nice if you went into the Ministry like your father?" his mum pressed, and Bill groaned, spotting where this exchange was going, and not liking it in the least bit.

"Funnily enough, one of the few things I knew I didn't want to do with my life was work for the Ministry, that and train security trolls," Bill replied as placidly as he could. Looking at Charlie, he amended, "Not that there's anything wrong with training security trolls."

"Don't be daft, you know I want to work with dragons, not trolls. Dragons are smart, and trolls are stupid, so there's a big difference," Charlie reminded him condescendingly.

"And both are positively lethal, so there's not really that much of a difference, as dead is dead," clinched Bill.

Before Charlie could retort, their mother stepped in with, "But why don't you want to have a career at the Ministry?"

"Because I want to do something else," Bill answered with calm evasion.

"What?"

"A very challenging and fulfilling career that also pays well, that's what."

"Doing what?" Molly sounded highly suspicious now. "It'd better not be something illegal."

"Mum, I got the idea from Professor McGonagall, and she's hardly the type to advise a student to break the rule, nonetheless the law," Bill reminded her politely, as Charlie snickered.

"You're right, how silly of me, but she can't be expected to know what's best for you as I can, and..."

"And what makes you think that Bill would be well suited for a career at the Ministry of Magic?" Arthur prodded, eyeing his spouse with an expression Bill could not fathom.

"Why, you're there, of course, and you like it," established Mrs. Weasley, her eyebrows contracting.

"True, but we're talking about Bill, not me," Mr. Weasley informed her gently, and Bill silently thanked his dad for understanding that much.

"Well, obviously, but he's always taken after you," blustered his wife.

Mr. Weasley nodded as he considered the point, but said in the end, "I think that if Bill walked into Professor McGonagall's office, and told her that there were two things he didn't want to do: train security trolls and work for the Ministry, we can accept his judgement, especially taking into account all those leaflets he must have skimmed. I also believe that we can trust Professor McGonagall to set him on the right path, because, after all, she has been Head of Gryffindor House for a long time, and she has always struck me as a more than competent woman, who is definitely fit to be Dumbledore's deputy headmistress."

"I didn't mean to imply that Minerva McGonagall was in any way incompetent, and I suspect you were aware of that Arthur," Mrs. Weasley sighed. "I just wish Bill would tell us what was going on in that vein, so we could guide him as well."

"Maybe I will when you stop talking about me in front of me as if I'm not there," Bill cut in, managing in an astonishing feat to keep his tone level. Even as he expressed as much, he thought that there was little chance of him actually confiding his plans in them before he had secured a job as Curse-Breaker, because he sensed that his mother's reaction would be far from favorable, and he could not envisage how exactly his father would react to such a development.


	21. Chapter 21

Percy's First Day

Author's Note: This chapter is a little short, but I thought it was worth including if only to mesh with Charlie's first day, which was dealt with earlier. Also, Tonks appears briefly for the first time. (The astute reviewer who noted her absence and mentioned it to me will be happy to see this inclusion, I hope.) On the subject of Tonks, according to the Lexicon, she is in Charlie's year at Hogwarts, and I'm willing to accept this figure based on their arithmetic as I don't trust my own. I put her in Hufflepuff, because apparently J.K. Rowling said she was a Hufflepuff, so there you go.

Reviews: Are golden, and I try to respond as soon as possible. Even two or three words can brighten my day.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, but it doesn't belong to you either, so we're even.

On September first on platform 9 ¾, Molly Weasley hugged and kissed her three oldest children good-bye. "Be good and care for Percy," she ordered Bill and Charlie as she aided her sons in placing their trunks on the train. To Charlie, she added an additional stipulation, "If Percy wants to, he is to sit in your carriage."

Bill saw his brother glance sideways at Percy, whose quivering frame stated more clearly than words that he wished to join Charlie and his friends, and he protested, "Mum, why can't he sit with Bill?"

"Because, Charles, Bill happens to be a prefect, which means that he'll spend the first part of the train ride in the first two compartments, listening to the Head Boy and Girl go over the rules of being prefect and everything," his mother snapped, "and Percy might very well want someone by his side at the outset of the train ride."

"Besides," added Bill, smirking, "I had to teach you the ropes, Charlie, and now it is your opportunity to return the favor by doing the same for Perce. Here's your chance, don't let it slip right through your hands."

"If you don't close your mouth this instant, I'll close it for you by knocking your teeth out," Charlie offered, balling his hand in a menacing insinuation.

"If you do, I'll put you in detention for a week," responded Bill coolly. "You can be the first person who has ever landed themselves in detention before they even arrived at Hogwarts."

"Shut up, or I'll have Carver send a Bludger into where you are in the audience in the next Quidditch match," Charlie fired back.

Their bantering was interrupted by the arrival of a girl with short, spiky, shocking pink hair coupled with a pale, pretty, heart-shaped face, who Bill recognized as Nymphadora Tonks, a sort of distant relative of theirs. Also, she happened to be a Hufflepuff in Charlie's year whom Charlie had started hanging around with at the end of last term, when McGonagall had separated him from Dan and Matt in Transfiguration and sat him beside her because he had been talking too much, and he had taken to chatting with her, instead.

"Wotcher, Charlie," she greeted him now. Turning to Bill, she added, "Wotcher, Bill."

"Don't bother talking to him, as he's a git," Charlie educated her crisply. Grabbing Percy by the elbow, he continued, "Come on, Tonks, let's hurry, or we won't be able to find a compartment with enough room for you, me, Dan, Matt, your friend Karen, and witless here." He nodded at Percy, who scowled at this term, no doubt of the opinion that Charlie was more witless than him. Waving to their mother, Charlie and Percy hopped onto the train with Tonks.

Deciding it was time for him to leap aboard the train, as well, Bill leaned forward, and kissed his mother on the cheek. "Bye, Mum. I'd better get off to the prefect meeting up front. I'll write to you on Friday."

As he set off towards the opposite end of the platform, so that he could board the train nearer to the compartments where the Head Boy and Head Girl would address the prefects, he distinctly heard her call, "Have a good term, dear!"

After listening to the Head Boy and Girl yammer on about the obligation being a prefect entailed and the rules that governed this honor and weighty responsibility, Bill set off down the corridor to find the compartment where Chris and Mike had saved him a seat, hoping they had left some Cauldron Cakes and Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans for him to enjoy, as they had been considerate enough to do last year. When he entered, he was pleased to note they had, and scooped up a Cauldron Cake in one smooth movement, greeting his two best friends at Hogwarts as he did so, "Hey, Chris, Mike. How were your summers?"

"Cool, my parents and I went to Italy, and saw the ancient Roman ruins, and all that," Mike, midway through a Chocolate Frog, answered. "I was just telling Chris all about it, though, so I won't bore him with the details a second time."

"I see," laughed Bill, and then focused his attention on his other comrade. "And you?"

"I didn't do anything fun like that," Chris mumbled bitterly, "the most excitement pitiful me had was visiting my least favorite uncle for two whole days, and being forced to be polite to him. It was terrible. What about you, Bill?"

"Same as always."

They had just finished sharing their summer adventures or lack thereof, when the compartment door burst open, and all three occupants tilted their heads forward to see who had entered, expecting to see Brian, Jason, Heather, Jennifer, Stephanie, or even Charlie. However, they were wrong, for Percy, red-faced with hurt indignation, burst into the compartment.

"Bill," he educated his older brother as soon as he shut the compartment door behind him, "I've been looking all up and down the train for you."

"I see you've found me," Bill replied dryly. "What is it you want?"

"I want you to put Charlie in detention."

"Come again?" Bill blinked in astonishment at this blanket statement, because, in all his time as a prefect nobody had ever said anything like it to him.

"I want you to put Charlie in detention," reiterated Percy pompously, "because he was bullying me."

"And how was he doing this?" He was doing his best to be a supportive older brother, but this was hysterical, and a situation that only someone like Percy would create. Most likely Charlie had cracked one too many jokes at Percy's expense, and now the third Weasley sibling was miffed, and that did not constitute bullying in Bill's humble opinion.

"He—he picked on me when I talked about all the school books I read, and how I can't wait to try magic, especially Transfiguration and Charms, in a scholastic environment, and all his juvenile companions laughed along with him," clarified Percy with an air of utmost seriousness, ignoring the fact that Chris and Mike were stuffing knuckles in their mouths to stifle their laughter, an endeavor they were only doing because Bill was glaring warningly at them. Even Bill barely managed to suppress an eye roll at words such as "scholastic" and "juvenile," which only Percy would employ in everyday conversation. "And when I told him to be quiet, or I'll report him to you, and you'll put him in detention, he laughed at me."

"That's not bullying, Perce." Bill hoped his tone was gentle, or at least not amused, "that's just Charlie trying to be funny."

"Bullying is not amusing, Bill," Percy educated him shortly, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that reminded the addressed of their mother, as though the older boy was not aware of such a fact.

"Of course it isn't, and I didn't say it was, but it is a fact of life at school for first-years, and once you see real bullying, you'll know that Charlie, while he was having a little fun at your expense, wasn't bullying you. When someone truly is bullying you or any of your peers, I will be more than happy to put a stop to it."

"So you're not going to punish him?" demanded Percy incredulously. "You're not going to put him in detention or anything?"

"No, I don't often take away points, and I've only put someone in detention like once, because they let off a batch of Filibuster Fireworks in the common room, and it set fire to everyone's homework, but I'd rather make people listen to me in other ways. Just because a person has power and authority, that doesn't mean they should always use it."

"That doesn't mean they should neglect to use it, either, and let those under their care suffer for their lack of firmness," Percy frowned bemusedly, "and you threatened Charlie with detention earlier."

Now it was Bill's turn to frown in puzzlement. "When exactly did I do this?"

"This morning on the platform, of course," supplied Percy immediately, sounding surprised at the other's bewilderment. "You said that you would put Charlie in detention for a week if he punched you in the mouth."

At this remark, Bill could not control himself, chuckled, and was promptly joined in this expression of mirth by Chris and Mike, and Percy glowered at him. "Merlin, Perce, I was teasing with him, just as he was joshing around with me when he said he would sock me in the face in the first place, and when he claimed he would have Carver send a Bludger my way," Bill spelled out once he had caught his breath. "See, that's your problem, Percy, you take everything too seriously. A lot of times, people are just trying to have fun with each other, and, you know, make each other loosen up and laugh."

"May I sit with you for the rest of the train ride?" Percy asked in a more subdued tone as he settled himself in the vacant seat next to his brother, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone else in the compartment.

"Sure, if you want to," Bill shrugged, "but you don't have to sit with either Charlie or I, you know. You can strike out on your own, and dare to chat with some other first-year monsters, for that's how you'll become friends with them.You've nothing to fear from them, for all of them are as uncomfortable as you are in this weird new place."

"That's how we all met," interjected Mike.

"Yeah, that's how we discovered that we should become best friends forever," Chris affirmed. Seemingly second-guessing himself, he inquired of Bill and Mike, "We did agree to become best friends on the Hogwarts Express, didn't we?"

"I don't know, I think it sort of just happened," Mike shrugged languidly.

"Either way," Bill reasoned, "you won't make any new friends here, Percy, if you don't step out of your little shell, and try to talk with some of your classmates. If you do that, you'll have loads of companions at Hogwarts in no time at all, I promise."

"You let Charlie sit with you," Percy pouted.

"You can if you want to, but I just think you and Charlie are different." Bill was trying to think of a tactful way to avoid the impropriety of admitting that he had always been much more fond of Charlie than Percy, and, therefore, did not mind Charlie's presence in his compartment nearly as much as he cared about Percy's. In the end, he came out with, "Charlie is naturally more at ease around people. He can spend, like, two minutes with them, and end up best friends with them, and..."

"And I can't," sighed Percy, and Bill wondered if it was possible that his observation had stung his little brother, despite his efforts at tact, "which is why there's no point in my bothering to try and reach out to people, when my own brothers are convinced that I am a pompous bore."

"I didn't say you are a pompous bore," Bill argued, "I just said you needed to relax, and there's a considerable difference between the two." However, Percy just shrugged, and stared out the window, and, within minutes, the three older boys had resumed talking as if he were not present.


	22. Chapter 22

Charlie's Love Life

Reviews: Reviews motivate me, so if you have the time, please write one. It doesn't have to be long, for it can just be a word or two, and I will take the time to respond as soon as I can. Also, I tend to incorporate suggestions whenever possible, so if you have any, send them to me.

Author's Note: Tonks plays a larger role in this chapter. (This statement causes any Tonks supporters to cheer.) By the way, she's a Hufflepuff , and she's in Charlie's year, according to Lexicon, which is what I go by.

Disclaimer: If you thinks it's mine, you're even crazier than I am. Congratulations.

On a Monday morning in the middle of October, sixth-year Bill Weasley was perched on a window ledge, writing an Arithmancy essay while he patrolled the Transfiguration corridor during one of his free periods, although he suspected this activity was an utter waste of time and energy, as nobody would have the audacity to cut McGonagall's class, or to disturb the quiet she insisted on maintaining in her hallway while she was conducting a lesson. Therefore, he was understandably relaxed, which meant that he leapt nearly a foot into the air when he heard the door to McGongall's classroom swing wide open, and then bang shut again. After a second during which he soothed his nerves, Bill comprehended that the door had been slammed by an adolescent girl with hair that was transforming from magenta to navy blue to puke green. Obviously, it was Tonks, the Metamorphmagus, and, just as clearly, she was upset about something, for she always had difficulty controlling her gift when she was under emotional strain, much like a child wizard losing control of his magic when threatened.

"What are you doing?" he asked in his most stern prefect voice. "The bell rang five minutes ago. You ought to be in class, not out here in the corridor."

"What are you doing, Weasley?" She turned the question upon him as she hastened down the corridor, determinedly not glancing in his direction.

"As a prefect," he began, flinging out a hand to halt her retreat, "I am entitled to roam the corridors without answering to you, and, as a sixth-year, I have been granted free periods, and, coincidentally, this is one of them. During this free period, it is my responsibility to patrol this hallway, which brings me back to my initial question, Nymphadora Tonks: What are you doing in this passageway when you're supposed to be in Transfiguration?"

"It's all the fault of that complete c-c-cow Julie Ross," sputtered Tonks, tears of fury welling in her eyes which were shifting through all the hues of the rainbow, as her nose became doughy like a pudgy chef's. "S-s-she overheard me telling my friend Karen that—that I like Charlie Weasley, as you know, more than just friends."

"Oh?" Bill was honestly taken aback by this confession, because he had always assumed that the relationship between his younger brother and Tonks had been purely platonic on both sides. Ah, well, he knew what happened when you assumed.

"And she blabbed to the whole class, and everyone was laughing at me," Tonks went on, her skin becoming aquamarine as her nose adapted the shape of something astonishingly like a pig's snout, "because it's simply hilarious that the freaky girl who can't control what color her hair or skin will be next would have a crush on the star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Then, of course, there's the added bonus of Charlie never talking to me again— "

"Hold on," interrupted Bill, "he actually said he would never speak to you again?" if Charlie had said that, he would be having a very serious conversation with his brother in the common room this evening, because Charlie could not go around treating people like that. It was heartless, and Weasleys were not cruel.

"No, but he doesn't have to," Tonks exploded, and Bill felt a twinge of relief that his sibling had some level of decency in him, "because he doesn't reciprocate my feelings, and boys get all awkward once they know a girl is crushing on them, and they don't like her back."

"You're being unfair to Charlie. I know for a fact that he enjoys sitting next to you in Transfiguration, and hanging out with you and all..."

"You mean he used to like it," Tonks cut in grimly. "Now he won't, and it's a pity, since I was starting to think that we might become close, but now we never will."

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Bill regained his prefect manner. "Regardless, you must return to class this instant."

"I can't." Tonks shook her head weakly in negation, her hair turning orange in her distress, as if to emphasize her argument.

"Why not?" Bill's arms wrapped over each other, and his eyebrows rose.

"I'm too ashamed and too humiliated."

Again, Bill found himself melting like ice cream placed under the summer sun. "Tonks, you've done nothing that you should be ashamed of, and you shouldn't be embarrassed just because you've developed soft feelings for a boy. In fact, it would be odder if at your age you hadn't. The only ones who should be ashamed are Julie Ross and those who mocked you. You've done nothing wrong." He attempted to speak to her as if she were a sister of his, who had run crying to him.

When she made no reply, he waved a hand in dismissal. "Now get back to class."

"No, I can't face Charlie," insisted Tonks, her chin stuck out stubbornly, although her face was blanched.

"That's silly. It's one of the more foolish delusions people harbor, that we ought to conceal the love we have for other beings. Why?"

"Because we'll offend them."

"Nonsense. Love couldn't offend anybody, for everyone wants to know their loved. At least, everybody who is minimally sane does, and Charlie's minimally sane, no matter how much he behaves as if he is not."

Biting her lip, Tonks debated this point inwardly, then muttered, "McGonagall is going to kill me for running off on her like that."

"Nah, I don't think she will," responded Bill calmly, "after all, she hasn't come after you yet, and we're standing only a few meters from her classroom. I'll escort you back inside, and explain to McGonagall that I took you up to the hospital wing for a Cheering Charm."

"But you didn't."

"Would you prefer detention?" Bill's eyebrows arched. "Or points taken from Hufflepuff?"

"It's not a good story, and you know it, for you could have worked it upon me by yourself, seeing as we learned that spell in the third-year, and you did get twelve O.W.L's—Charlie told me." A slight tremble came into her voice when she said Charlie's name.

"No magic is permitted in the corridors, remember?" he grinned at her, and she returned it tremulously.

"It's no wonder Charlie looks up to you so much," she commented more brightly, starting to regain the spunk that Charlie insisted was typical with her, " anyone would. I mean, you were the only one brave enough to treat me respectfully, you know, like a human being."

"It was nothing," he reassured her, opening Professor McGonagall's door, and causing all the fourth-years inside the classroom to swivel around in astonishment at the interruption.

"Ah, Tonks and Weasley," Professor McGonagall remarked loftily when she spotted the newcomers. This caused the classroom to explode with chortles, as every fourth-year, except Tonks, who stiffened, and Charlie, who flushed to the roots of his vibrant hair and concealed himself behind his copy of _Intermediate Transfiguration_, giggled as they noted the suggestive unintended juxtaposition.

"Be quiet this second, all of you," snapped Professor McGonagall, glaring at the fourth-years, "or I'll give you a three thousand word essay on charity and kindness, in addition to all your other homework, because none of you seem to understand the definitions of those words." Silence descended upon the room at large as she started to return to the front of the room, but when she was halfway there, indicating with a trembling finger the blackboard that now read: **Charlie Loves Tonks**. Apparently, someone had whipped out his or her wand and bewitched the chalk to inscribe this message while Professor McGonagall was busy, and Bill felt an immediate loathing for the person.

"Who did this?" Outraged, Professor McGonagall pivoted to face a girl with a long, gleaming silver plait. "Was it you, Julie Ross?"

"No, Professor, truly it wasn't me," Julie Ross avowed innocently.

Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "I sincerely hope it wasn't, as you have caused more than enough damage already. Besides, such cowardly insults are unworthy of a Gryffindor, or any decent human being, for that matter." The blonde girl blushed, and McGonagall glared at the class as a whole, "That goes for all of you, not just Miss Ross. All of you should be appalled at your behavior. As far as I can see, Bill Weasley is the only one who has treated Tonks with any consideration whatsoever."

Not appreciating being dragged into the lecture, even as an example of proper behavior, Bill inched toward the doorway, wondering if he could escape unnoticed. The notion was murdered in his mind at conception, when McGonagall demanded, "Would anyone care to confess to writing this disgraceful message and apologize to Nymphadora and Charles for ridiculing them like this?"

For a moment there was absolute quiet, and then someone spoke.

"I did it, Professor," Charlie admitted steadily, and Bill could have strangled his little brother than and there. How dare he deride someone else's love? Could he really be so confident that he would never love foolishly and make an idiot of himself in the process? However, his wrath dissipated when Charlie continued fiercely, "And I won't apologize, because it's the truth, and I'm not ashamed if everyone who thinks it's their business knows it."

Bill watched as Charlie whirled about to wink at Tonks, who beamed, as her hair returned to it's usual color and her skin and eyes regained their typical sheen.

"I see, well, Tonks, sit down by Weasley, and be sure to copy down the notes you missed from somebody," faltered Professor McGonagall, plainly wrong-footed by such a frank public admission, as Bill, shaking his head at the folly of fourth-years, departed.

That night in the Gryffindor tower, Bill plopped down on the couch next to Charlie. "Hey, how'd it go with Tonks, Char?"

"Great, I asked if she would like to, you know, go into Hogsmeade with me on a Halloween."

"As a date, I presume," drawled Bill.

"Yeah, as a date," Charlie smiled.

"So, how long have you liked her?"

"Since the end of last term, I reckon." Charlie shrugged his broad, muscular shoulders. "It's sort of hard to tell with this sort of thing, you see. One minute your just think of someone as a peer, and the next you're thinking about how hot they are, and your insides are like butter, Bill."

"I guess I know what you mean," conceded Bill. "If you liked her for so long, why didn't you ask her out before now? Before she took so much heat?"

"Did you give your brain away to some type of charity organization, or did you give away your social sense to Percy finally?" Charlie gazed at his older brother in unflattering disbelief. "I didn't ask her out, because I didn't think she cared for me as anything but a guy friend, and I was afraid I would jeopardize the connection we had between us, if I stepped forward and admitted my feelings. Girls get weird once they know a guy who they don't like them is crushing on them."

"So you were going to wait for her to make the first move?" inquired Bill, smirking. "How chivalrous and gentlemanly of you, Charlie!"

At that moment, Jennifer Cassidy slipped into the lounge chair across the coffee table from them. "Ignore him," she informed Charlie, jerking her head in Bill's direction. "He shouldn't talk, as I had to ask him out back in our second year, for God's sake."

"No, you didn't," Bill reminded her. "You had Stephanie ask me out for you. That's much less nerve-racking than actually doing it yourself."

Before Jennifer could snap back, Percy marched up to them, his hands clasped tightly about his rat, Scabbers. "Bill," he announced, his eyes more moist than usual, "I'm being bullied again."

"Really?" Bill asked dubiously. "Who's bullying you now, Perce? It can't be Charlie, because he's right here."

"You were right, Charlie wasn't bullying me on the train," Percy admitted, the tears that were threatening to fall now starting to emerge from his eyes, "but, honestly, Erik Ryans is picking on me."

"Erick Ryan is picking on you?" demanded Bill, although he was not really asking for clarification, but rather asking out of indignation, because he had never liked Erik Ryans, who was a Gryffindor in the year below him, who thought much of himself. "What did he say exactly?"

"He said my rat was stupid," Percy educated his older brother seriously, his tears now streaming down his face. "He claimed that my rat is useless, because it can't carry messages like an owl, and it can't even hop like a toad, and he stated that the only reason I had such a useless pet was because our family is so poor…"

"Well, that just proves that a sharp tongue is by no means indicative of a sharp mind," scowled Charlie, "because, for his information, rats are just as valuable as owls, because you can practice all sorts of experiments and spells on rats that you can't perform on owls."

"Yeah, and who needs their own owl anyway, when everyone can use the school ones?" added Bill, and Percy brightened a little. "Hard to believe that all of Ryans' ancestors must number in the millions, so that many people are to blame for producing him, when you consider the matter."

"Will you punish him?" Percy inquired thickly.

"Of course, he has no business picking on you, or any other first-year," Bill agreed, and Percy smiled in grim triumph. "I'll report him, and see if he feels he's so hilarious after two detentions with Snape."

"Can I punch Ryans?" Charlie asked seriously as a satisfied Percy wandered off, murmuring a formal good-bye. Interpreting this remark as a joke, Jennifer laughed, and the junior of the two remaining Weasleys frowned at her. "I was being serious, you know, Jennifer." Turning his focus on his elder sibling, he repeated, "Well, can I sock Ryans, or do you want the honors?"

"I'm a prefect, Charles." Bill attempted to look scandalized, which made Charlie snicker. "Therefore, I can hardly sock anyone, however much I'd delight in doing so, and I can not tolerate violence going on in front of me, without reporting those involved in the fight." When Charlie scowled at him, he winked at his little brother. "Just do it when I'm looking the other way, alright, mate?"

"Got it." Charlie shot him the double thumbs up.

"Good, I'd hate to have to put you in detention, or something," Bill smiled.

"So, anyway, what should I do with Tonks in Hogsmeade?" inquired Charlie of the two sixth-years.

"Take her to Madam Puddifoot's, it's really nice," suggested Jennifer, beaming.

"It is not, it's really cramped, and always full of cherubs that chuck pink confetti that clashes horribly with our Weasley hair upon customers' heads and in the coffee," Bill contradicted her, and Charlie turned from one of them to the other, plainly more confused than ever by their divergent advice. "Take her to Honeydukes and buy her some chocolate, because I've never met a girl who didn't like chocolate, then take her to Zonko's, because she's a spirited one, and she'll like all their jokes."

"You can do that after you take her to Madam Puddifoot's," persisted Jennifer.

"After he takes her to the Three Broomsticks, you mean," argued Bill.

"A date in a pub?" Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I knew there was a reason I broke up with you."

"Yeah, you found out that I liked Steph better, and so you were jealous."

"Guys, this isn't helping in the least," Charlie intervened, "and you're making me nervous with all your blabber about failed romances."

"Sorry, but surely you didn't think that your relationship with Tonks would last forever," teased Bill, rising with Jennifer, so they could go to the library and practice non-verbal spells together.


	23. Chapter 23

Hagrid's Friends

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"Bill?" Bill glanced up from the book in which he was researching Inferi for Defense Against the Dark Arts three weeks before the Christmas holidays.

"Yes," he whispered, as Charlie slid into the chair beside him.

"May I ask you a favor?" Charlie's tone was far too casual to be trusted.

"Please tell me that what you're about to request of me is not really so terrible that you feel you must ask that I do it, instead of just ordering me to and expecting me to do it," sighed Bill with a sinking feeling, as he shut the research book carefully, since he did not want to invite the hostility of Madam Pince by being too loud in the library or mistreating a tome.

"It's not too bad," replied Charlie much too swiftly for earnestness. When his companion just stared silently at him, he was compelled to clarify, "Anyway, it wasn't really me, it was Hagrid."

"Well, that makes me feel loads better, thanks."

Charlie glared daggers at his comrade. "Did anyone tell you that sarcasm isn't the lowest form of wit, it's not even wit at all? Oh, never mind, that's not the point! The point is that Hagrid needs your help."

"Why does he require my help, exactly?" Bill wanted to know, wondering what sort of chaos the gamekeeper was currently concocting and how his little brother had gotten involved.

"Um, well, you see," the other stammered, hesitated, tidying his thoughts, and then burst out, "Hagrid managed to purchase chimera eggs from some bloke in the black market, and they've only just hatched…"

At this point, Bill interrupted incredulously, and as voluminously as he dared to in the library under the hawk-like eyes of Madam Pince, "Hagrid bought chimera eggs, and he brought them to Hogwarts? That's illegal, and he could end up killing or severely injuring some students with those bloody menaces!"

"They're not 'bloody menaces,' Bill, they're babies, and they're simply adorable," hissed Charlie defensively, and Bill moaned, dropping his head into his palms, contemplating miserably why whatever unseen being resided in the heavens had made the executive decision of making him Charlie's elder sibling. Ignoring his brother's despair, the younger Weasley continued, "As they're only just hatched, Hagrid needs you and I to help him build a shed for the newborn chimeras, because they don't seem to like the cold much, and soon the snows will come."

"Let me get this straight. You want me to help you build a shed for the little monsters that have a lion's head and a dragon's tail, and are famous for their vicious nature. Hold on, there's something a tad bit wrong with this picture. Maybe it's the fact that having a chimera on school grounds is illegal, unless proper authorization has been attained from the Ministry of Magic, and tons of students could be killed, or maybe I'm just being selfish, because I don't want to be expelled for assisting in the upkeep of chimeras on school property, if you don't mind."

"The chimera babies are in the Forbidden Forest, for God's sake. Nobody goes in there, so nobody will get hurt," Charlie reasoned, a hint of a plea in his tone.

"That doesn't change the fact that a school's the wrong place for chimera babies, and you know it, Charlie." Bill tried to speak kindly, although he wanted to rage at his little brother for his thick-headedness.

"But…"

"And it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to have to report this," Bill resumed, loathing himself for having to do this, but he really had no alternative. After all, he was responsible for ensuring that his fellow pupils were safe, or at least not murdered by bloodthirsty brutes.

"You can't!" Charlie gritted through tightly clenched teeth, because he did not want Madam Pince to join them, either, though his sizzling brown eyes conveyed his vehemence.

"I can't neglect to," responded Bill firmly, collecting his textbooks, and preparing to depart the library. "I'll try to make you and Hagrid seem as innocent as possible when I tell the tale, mind, and I'll go tattle to Dumbledore, not to McGonagall, because he's always been more understanding of eccentricities."

Angrily, Charlie folded his muscular arms resolutely across his brawny chest, and turned his back on his brother. Not wanting a rift to develop between the two of them who had always been so close, Bill put his hand on the smaller boy's broad shoulder after he rose out of his chair, and was stung when the other jerked free of his grasp.

"Do you wish to accompany me?" suggested Bill gingerly, hoping for an affirmative answer that would help breach the gap that had developed between them.

"What difference will it make?" snorted Charlie contemptuously, but he pushed back his chair, and the pair of them hurried down the corridors to Dumbledore's office, refusing to look at or address one another, despite the fact that they were side-by-side, because a stone wall apparently had been erected between them.

When they reached the exceptionally ugly gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's study, Bill said, "Oddment," thanking the heavens that prefects were given this particular password. Obediently, the gargoyle sprang to life, and hopped aside as the wall where it had been before divided in half. Still refusing to so much as glance at each other, Bill and Charlie began to ascend the spiral stairway, which moved them inexorably upward, although Bill now wanted to do nothing more than pivot on his heel and flee. Before he could do any such thing, however, they halted outside a gleaming oak door, and, gathering his courage about him like a cloak, Bill banged the brass knocker, which was molded like a griffin.

"Come in," Dumbledore's voice sounded through the door, and Bill gulped, twisted the handle, and entered the office with Charlie in tow. When he saw that Professor McGonagall was sitting across the desk from Dumbledore, Bill's discomfiture increased, and Charlie scuffed his feet, an action Bill could hear even if he was not looking at the other lad.

"Ah, Misters William and Charles Weasley, what a pleasure," Professor Dumbledore beamed benevolently at them, and Bill could feel some of the tension coiled inside him ease. "How may I help you boys?"

"It's Hagrid, sir," Bill explained. "Charlie told me that somehow he ended up with chimera eggs, and they've―they've only just hatched…"

"Chimera eggs at Hogwarts?" demanded Professor McGonagall, a hand flying to her heart in horror.

"Not exactly, Professor. As I said, Charlie informed me that they've apparently only just hatched and Hagrid's hidden them in the Forbidden Forest," Bill replied heavily, not enjoying being in this position in the slightest.

"So we've got live chimeras on the grounds, what a relief," McGonagall muttered sardonically, and Bill fought to conceal a grin.

However, Charlie was not amused. "Hagrid wants to keep them, and so do I," he declared stubbornly.

"You don't." Bill glowered at him. "You don't want any of your fellow students to be gobbled up by a vicious monster, believe it or not."

"Chimera babies are not vicious, for your information," blustered Charlie.

"That's a new development," Bill sneered.

"Bill, if the Ministry gets a hold of them, the baby chimeras will be executed! Hagrid's right―the Ministry has it in for interesting creatures."

"Yeah, well, it's better that the beasts die, than we do, if you'll pardon my saying so!"

Dumbledore held up a hand to silence this debate. "Desist, please. You both make legitimate points, but Charlie is correct in stating that we can hardly let the chimeras fall into Ministry hands."

When the man established as much, Bill heard Charlie emit a sigh of relief, but he could not share in his brother's joy, because he seriously thought that chimera hatchlings were going to place the general population of Hogwarts in mortal peril. He was just attempting to invent a polite way to inquire after the headmaster's sanity when Professor McGonagall saved him the bother, by interjecting, "With all due respect, Professor Dumbledore, I am convinced that it endangers the student body to have chimeras on the school grounds."

"Oh, of course we shan't keep them here!" Dumbledore exclaimed genially. His twinkling cerulean eyes sought out Bill's bemused chestnut ones. "That's what you were wondering, too, wasn't it? Except of course, you were also considering whether or not I had finally lost my marbles, which I assure you I have not, although, in the near future that is, perhaps, a definite possibility."

Not at all sure how to reply to such an assertion, Bill at last settled upon, "I see, Professor, but what I don't see is how if you don't give the chimeras to the Ministry, and you don't keep them here, where you are going to put them?"

"Not to worry, not to worry. I've already handled that, Mr. Weasley, for I've been in contact with several acquaintances of a Mr. Newt Scamander, and they would be delighted to accept the newborn chimeras." Dumbledore faced Charlie with a concerned expression on his wrinkled face. "Charlie, the chimera hatchlings will not be harmed, I promise you, although they will be used as research subjects by the Greek friends of Newt Scamander."

"Yes, Professor," murmured Charlie, his eyes resting on the various fascinating tools lining the shelves of the headmaster's office, which were intriguing to his brother, as well, though he still had something else on his mind.

"You knew for awhile that Hagrid had those chimera eggs, didn't you, sir?" the older Weasley charged. "That's why you've been in touch with Scamander and the Greeks. Am I right?"

"Yes, though I admit that perhaps I should have spoken with Hagrid about this prior to now." Dumbledore nodded modestly.

As Charlie whistled in awe, Bill shook his head, expressing shakily, "Dad's right, you are omniscient."

"You flatter me, for I am no such thing." Beaming benignly, Dumbledore waved his hand, dismissing the pair of adolescents. "Run along, now, and, by the way, it is possible that Hagird will appreciate hearing the news from you two…"

"We'll go down to tell Hagrid at once, sir," Charlie hastened to assure him exuberantly. Realizing that he may have erred in including his recently estranged sibling in this pledge, he looked anxiously to his right. "Erm, you'll come too, won't you, Bill?"

"Of course I will, you idiot. I'm not likely to let you have all the fun, am I?"

"Come on, then, laggard," ordered Charlie, and they left the study after bidding farewell to their teachers.

In the end, although Hagrid initially protested, the Hogwarts gamekeeper agreed that his chimeras were better off in a research facility, if only because, as Charlie had contended, the weather was better suited for the beasts there, and Charlie agreed to assist Hagrid in placing the chimeras in cages when they were about to be transported to Greece.

By the time the term ended for the Christmas holidays, the chimeras had been shipped off to Greece, and Charlie and Hagrid had mostly made peace with this fact. On the last day before break, Bill and Charlie wandered down to aid Hagrid in packaging the chimeras, which were rapidly growing, something that was not a positive fact in their case, for the trip to Greece on the back of the researchers' brooms. After drying Hagrid's tears at the departure of his creatures, the two brothers headed back to the Gryffindor tower to complete their packing.

When they arrived outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, the two boys saw a ruckus that was unlikely to brighten their moods: a knot of first-years were howling at each other on the top of their lungs, while the Fat Lady attempted to shush them, adding her own shrill voice to the din filling the hallway. Bill's foul temper increased when he realized that Percy was playing a major role in this conflict, for he was shouting, "Jeremy, Thomas, Richard, Oliver, Maria, Kimberly, and Michelle, you're all going to do what I say this instant, or else―"

"Stop talking now, you prat, or I'll throw you out a window, and save the world," cut in one burly boy irritably.

"And I'll practice some Unforgivable Curses on you, you see if I don't," added one of the females, her hand resting on her wand.

Bill and Charlie rolled their eyes at one another, but decided not to involve themselves just yet, as they had so far remained unnoticed in the fray, and Bill was interested in learning anything he could about Percy's handicap in making friends at Hogwarts.

"You wouldn't dare to hex me," retorted Percy, flaring up like Mrs. Weasley. "My brother is a prefect, and he'll put you in detention, Michelle, if I tell him that you've been bullying me, and the same applies to you, Oliver Wood."

"Does it really?" Bill asked icily, stepping forward, and causing Percy to retreat a little. "I see now. Percy Weasley isn't content to be equals with his year-mates, and make friends with them, is he? No, he must be the one in power, the one in charge, the one with authority over others…"

"So what else is new?" shrugged Charlie disgustedly. "It's how he behaves at home, isn't it?"

"And when his peers don't want to be pushed around by him― when they don't want to be bullied by him anymore― and they stand up for themselves, he runs sobbing to his big brother, who happens to be a prefect, and blubbers about how they are picking on him. Is that it, Percy?" Bill recognized dimly that he was ranting, but he could not control himself. The whole situation was just that blood boiling.

"Of course not," Percy whispered, his cheeks as pale as a bride's gown. "They've said some really atrocious things to me."

"Whatever they've said to you, Percy, is not bullying," Bill educated the third Weasley child in a clipped manner, "it's a response to your bullying behavior, a measure of self-defense and self-respect. Look at it this way, if I bossed my peers around like you seem to be doing, and they advised me to take a long walk off a short pier, jump off Mount Everest, or slip into something more comfortable like a coma, would they be picking on me?"

"Yes," answered Percy stiffly, not finding the experience of being chided in public a pleasant one, but Bill figured he deserved the indignity after behaving like a total prat.

Praying for patience, Bill replied tightly, "Wrong answer, Perce. They would not be bullying me, and I would actually be the one picking on them, because I would be abusing my authority over them. That's what you're doing here."

"Technically," noted Charlie judiciously, "what he's doing is worse, when you consider it. After all, you, Bill, are in a position of authority, and he's not, so he looks even more clownish when he bosses everybody around."

Bill elected to ignore this comment, because to concede the point would be to seem arrogant, whereas to oppose it would be to weaken his own authority here. Instead, he plowed on, firing at his second brother, "Tell me this is not what happened with Erik Ryans, because, trust me, if it was, I swear, all three Weasley boys will be apologizing to him, no matter how much I loathe every single one of his blasted guts."

"No, he really was bullying me," protested Percy seriously.

"After you tried to boss him around, that is, huh?" Bill pressed with the air of a prosecuting attorney.

"No," this time it was a slight brown-haired girl who spoke up softly, not Percy. "Ryans was really picking on him about his rat and all, I witnessed it. Percy was really crying, and all upset, and everything."

"Apparently, you have made friends," drawled Bill to Percy, eyeing the girl carefully.

"I don't have any friends," Percy muttered, his cheeks cherries. "Nobody likes me."

"Hmm, wonder why not?" sniggered Charlie, and Percy glared at him, no doubt convinced the remark was utterly unnecessary.

"What's your name?" Bill inquired of the girl who had defended Percy before Percy could accuse Charlie of bullying him, although he inwardly supported Charlie's statement.

"Kimberly Wagnar," the girl replied quietly, seemingly regretting involving herself in this explosive affair.

"Right, Percy, you should thank Kimberly here, because she just saved your sorry skin, and I don't want you complaining to me about bullying again. From now on, you can handle it yourself, because you lost the right to complain about being picked on when you started pushing others around and threatening them." With that, Bill gave the Fat Lady the password ("Scorpio.") and entered the common room with Charlie, where they dashed upstairs to their dormitories to finish packing their trunks.

The next day in the bustle and the hustle that getting on the Hogwarts Express for the journey home for Christmas always entailed, Percy appeared at Bill's elbow as he waited to board the train.

"I wished to inform you that you were correct to some degree in your analysis," announced Percy pompously. "My peers seem noticeably more fond of me now that I have ceased being so commanding in their presence. In fact, I have the pleasure of informing you that Kimberly― Kim― Wagnar and I are beginning to become companions. She even invited me to sit with her and her friend, Oliver Wood, who's very interested in Quidditch, like Charlie is. As I have taken up her invitation, I regret to tell you that I will not be travelling with you on this journey."

"It's quite alright," Bill smiled, taken aback but delighted with this update, "I'm glad that you're finally making friends at Hogwarts, because I can't imagine the place without them, to be honest."


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: No, it isn't mine. If you thought it was, you obviously didn't notice the little bar at the top of your webpage.

Reviews are more than welcome, so if you have the time, don't hesitate to drop me a line, or two, or three, or you get the point, and I will reply.

Warning: There is a suicide in this chapter. I don't think that really warrants a T rating, myself, because there is no real gore or anything involved, and it's not one of Bill's close friends that goes. (For a hint as to who might snap, see the O.W.L. chapter.) If you think it does, tell me, and I will change my rating. I tend to go by whether or not it would upset my nine-year-old sister and her monster friends, but, obviously that is a limited sample population, so if you feel otherwise, let me know, and I might very well change it. (The parents out there are probably better at estimating, and I obviously don't want to rate wrong, and expose someone to something that is not age-appropriate.)

Author's Note: This is dedicated to all the teenagers, who are the future, whom we lose every year to suicide, and to all those teens who have ever considered it as a way out, a group that I fear is very large. The darker aspect of this story was inspired by the suicide of a fellow high school student of mine, who reminded me of just how real a problem suicide is in adolescents today, especially in the quiet, honors students who seem to have it all, but one day just lose it. Therefore, this fanfiction is dedicated in a special way to him, and I hope he, and all suicides, find the peace in the afterlife that they never could attain in life. (I wasn't even that close to him, we just shared many of the same classes, and have known each other from preschool like many of the children in my town, but you don't realize until someone is gone how their absence can cut you.) Finally, this is intended to serve as a plea to all those considering taking their life not to do it, because things will get better, and sometimes we place to much emphasis on things that are just not going to be important a month, a year, or five years from now.

As for the title, well, the chapter does focus on the idea of disappearing and reappearing, and everything, so I thought it fit. If you have a better idea, tell me, but I like this one well enough to be getting on with, and I seem to be using one word titles often, so it fit that motif. I'll shut up now. (Anyone still reading my ramble cheers, waking up the dead all over the globe in the process.)

Apparition

After the Christmas break, on the morning school really commenced once more, a circumstance Bill Weasley personally took zero delight in, because he had remained awake until the absurd hour of three in the morning horsing around with his friends first in the common room, and then in the dormitory, an infraction his mother would murder him for, Bill's mood was brightened moderately when he noted a sign announcing that he and his fellow sixth-years were eligible for a twelve week Apparition course from a licensed Ministry instructor. However, his enthusiasm waned when he saw that the cost was twelve Galleons, a Galleon a week, and a steep price as far as his family was concerned.

Spotting his frown, Chris frowned as well. "What's wrong with you, Bill? Apparition, just appearing out of thin air, out of nowhere, is awesome! Imagine how you could terrorize your family, especially your insane amount of siblings, if you went around just appearing and disappearing out of nowhere."

"I know," sighed Bill, "that's why I'm frowning, because Apparition is cool, of course, but costs money, and a lot of money at that, as far as Mum and Dad are concerned, so I'm not sure I'll be able to learn now."

"But you've got to be able to take Apparition lessons!" Chris' mouth was agape in horror. "If you don't, you'll never learn to disappear and reappear at will, and, you know, Apparition is something that's set a great deal in store by in our world. It's like, urm..."

"Driving a car in the Muggle world," supplied Mike as they watched a crowd start to take shape around the memorandum, and begin to jostle each other about, each vying to be the first to scribble their names on the sign-up sheet, as if the Apparition teacher would perceive the order in which they had enrolled as a measure of their interest in the subject. "Muggle teenagers are all excited about driving. They even do silly things like bite each other's licenses for good luck and all. My dad told me. He still can't get over the fact that us wizards don't drive everywhere. Says he still can't imagine anyone actually being able to transport themselves on a broomstick or through fires with powder."

"That's funny, Dad's still getting over the fact that Muggles drive everywhere," laughed Chris, "because he can't comprehend how they aren't completely bamboozled by all the controls the instant they hop in to a car, a view I understand entirely."

"Speaking of fathers, I've got to write to mine to ask for permission to take the classes," Bill observed. "Probably should do it tonight."

"Do you think he'll say yes?" Mike, who was about to put his name on the list now that the horde of people had disappeared, halted in mid-motion, as he eyed his companion anxiously.

"I don't know." Bill raised his shoulders in a shrug. "The last time I asked for something like this, the answer was a resounding 'no' and I got stuck with cleaning the shed and the chicken coop."

"Just for asking?" Mike's eyebrows were question marks themselves. "That seems unnecessarily harsh, in my opinion."

"Well, no," admitted Bill, "for being an insolent, stubborn teenaged boy, but still I'm going to be very nice in this owl."

"Make certain that you're at your most flattering when you write that letter," commanded Mike stalwartly, "because I'm not going to put my name down until you have permission to go. If you can't learn, I won't either."

Chris snatched Mike's quill from his hand to save himself the tremendous trouble of reaching into his own knapsack to withdraw a writing implement, and added his name to the sheet, informing Mike, "Sign-up, and you, too, Bill, because if your parents won't cough up, I'll get mine to somehow, I promise you. No friend of mine is going to be the only one in the year that doesn't learn to Apparate. Go on now, get on with it, both of you!"

Grinning, Bill and Mike signed themselves up for Apparition, as well, the former feeling immensely appreciative of his steadfast friends.

That morning at breakfast, all the sixth-years talked about was Apparition. Still, they had not worn the topic to shreds yet by the time Chris, Bill, Jason, Jennifer, and Heather set off for first period Transfiguration, chattering in an animated fashion about all they had ever heard or read about Apparition. When they arrived in Transfiguration, they saw that the Ravenclaws that they were paired with were all leaning together, babbling on about the same subject their Gryffindor counterparts were. However, Professor McGonagall's arrival put an abrupt sock in their conversations, if only temporarily, although Bill suspected that nobody was paying much attention to what she was saying about making non-vertebrates Vanish non-verbally. At the very least, he wasn't, and, strictly speaking, he wasn't jotting down nearly as many notes as he ought to be. Instead, he was contemplating the wonders of being able to vanish himself.

Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall chose to have them practice Vanishing guinea pigs in groups of four, an executive decision that, given the tangible excitement and energy filling the atmosphere, was perhaps not the most prudent course of action, although she did have the sense to form the teams herself. This meant that Bill ended up working with Jason, Sarah Jones, and Sarah's best mate, Jillian Fletcher.

The instant they resettled themselves, Jason remarked, "Now that McGonagall's stop yammering on about Vanishing spells, we can talk about something important, like Apparition, for example. How amazing will it be when I can Apparate? I'll be able to sneak up behind my mum and dad all the time, and make them drop whatever they're holding in alarm. I especially can't wait to do that to my dad, you know, because he's always leaping up behind me, trying to startle me. It'll be great to exact revenge by making him jump."

"I'm not sure you'd want to Apparate all the time, though, would you?" Jillian mused. "After all, I've heard it's pretty painful, and, if that's true, it's not something you'd want to do all the time, is it?"

"Oh, it's very agonizing, yes," responded Sarah in her usual snobbish tone, and Bill cursed the fates that had permitted her to pass her Transfiguration O.W.L. well enough to be present, and pondered briefly how Jillian could stand such an aggravating best friend. Lord, it would be worse than having Percy for a mate, and that would be nearly unbearable. In the same snooty voice, she went on, "Didn't I tell you that my father took me Side-Along Apparating just this August when we went on holiday to France, Belgium, and Germany to celebrate my ten O.W.L.'s, because it's rather difficult to see the sites, you know, when you can't Apparate?"

"No," Jillian answered, looking as surprised as Bill and Jason at this news, "well, was it unendurable?"

"Absolutely," replied Sarah with relish, resting her head indifferently upon her elbow, which caused her sleeve to slip down slightly, revealing a line of scabbing cuts along her left wrist. His attention caught by the slices for a moment, Bill realized that they seemed long, like streets, moving straight up her arm, until he lost sight of them, because her shirt sleeves concealed them. What had happened to her? Had someone been so vexed with her that they had hexed her? If so, why wasn't she in the hospital wing?

Before his mind could invent a satisfactory explanation for this anomaly, Bill's mind refocused on Sarah's words as she continued, "When I grabbed onto my father's arm, and he Apparated, my whole mind went completely black and blank, as if I had suddenly gone blind, or had been set upon by Dementors, and then I was being pushed and pulled in every conceivable direction, every atom in me determined on going its own way, and my eyeballs were popping, and eardrums were exploding like Muggles' do on airplanes, and..."

"Do any of you four have the vaguest recollection of my ordering you to _non-verbally _take turns Vanishing your guinea pigs, a task which, coincidentally, does not require talking, least of all about Apparition?" demanded Professor McGonagall crisply, setting upon them from behind as only she was capable of doing.

"Yes, Professor," four voices rang out meekly, as their owners blushed.

"Then I don't want to hear another word, Miss Jones, about your previous Side-Along Apparition experiences, which, oddly enough have absolutely no relevance to this particular lesson, unless you'd like to discuss it with me this evening with your comrades," snapped Professor McGonagall, glaring menacingly at the four students. Bill debated briefly whether she would actually place two prefects in detention, and then decided that she would indeed do so, because Minerva McGonagall was not renowned in Hogwarts for being lenient or making idle threats. In fact, she was famous for being just the opposite.

"You won't have to endure another word upon the subject from me, Professor," Sarah hastened to assure her.

"Good." Professor McGonagall nodded shortly. "Now, which of you wants to volunteer to go first in practicing the spell?" Unsurprisingly, no hands shot into the air, and she was forced to glance about her for a victim. It was not Bill's lucky day, because she settled upon him. "Ah, Weasley, why don't you try?"

Taking out his wand, which he discovered was still in his pocket, Bill mumbled under his breath, "Why's it always me?"

"That's not the incantation, Weasley, and, anyway, I told you to perform the spell non-verbally, which, of course, means without speaking," Professor McGonagall educated him dryly. "Try again, and I expect a better attempt this time."

Bill eyed their black-and-white striped guinea pig warily for a moment before realizing that he had forgotten the incantation. Frantically, he glanced down at the parchment that bore his notes, because he was already taking considerably longer than the task required. Great, it wasn't there, either.

"The spell slipped my mind, Professor, sorry," he confessed.

"I suppose that translates into, 'I didn't listen to a word you said all class, Professor, and I'm not sorry, because if I was I wouldn't have done it in the first place.'" At McGonagall's comment, Jason chortled and Bill wrinkled his nose at the other boy, for some bizarre reason not finding this amusing in the slightest. Luckily, he must have seemed sufficiently chastened, because she ordered imperiously, "Very well, you don't have to Vanish the guinea pig, but make sure you copy down that spell from somebody who was focused on me during my lecture, because it will come up on an exam, and I won't give it to you simply because you neglected to pay attention to me."

At Bill's nod of acquiescence, she whirled about to face Jason, "Since you find his failure so amusing, you must be capable of doing better, I'm certain. Go on, show us all." She gestured toward the guinea pig, which was now chewing upon Jillian's bracelet, something that obviously disgusted the lass, although she was plainly afraid to tug her jewelry free for fear that it would make the beads fly all over the classroom.

Jason sighed, and raised his wand. The next instant, emerald smoke had engulfed them, and there was a loud bang ringing in all their eardrums. When the smog cleared away, Bill saw that Jillian had been transformed into an otter, but there did not seem to have been any change in the physical structure or appearance of the guinea pig, however.

"Pathetic, Flanagan, if you don't know, just admit that you haven't a clue like Weasley did, for Merlin's sake, instead of turning your classmates into otters," scolded Professor McGonagall as she waved her wand and restored Jillian to her normal form. Glaring at them all now, she added, "I expect to see much improvement, if not by the end of this lesson, then by the start of next."

With that, she bustled off, and Jason muttered to Jillian, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that, honestly."

"It's okay," Jillian offered him a wobbly smile, "for you managed to get the guinea pig to relinquish his hold on my bracelet, in a round about way, although that wasn't the assignment."

Apparently a nuance in her tone suggested to Sarah that Jillian was not feeling as fine as she was declaring she was, for Sarah inquired softly, "Are you all right, Jill?"

"Well, I'm feeling about sick in my stomach, but nothing major," shrugged Jillian. "Besides, I'm not the only one whose hurt, am I, Sarah?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sarah replied shortly, although Bill noticed that she was staring at the table, studiously avoiding her friend's eyes, and he wondered what was occurring between the two girls, his forehead furrowing as he contemplated the possibilities for their awkwardness with each other.

"I saw some more scratches on your arms today," Jillian murmured, her eyes fretful.

"It's my new owl, Plato, I told you," snarled Sarah, bristling, "he's just a baby and he claws at me often. It's nothing to worry about, you idiot."

Jillian seemed to question the veracity of this, but before she could express any such dubious sentiments, Professor McGonagall hollered from across the room, where she was chastising the group that Jennifer, Heather, and Chris were in and that had been talking amongst themselves about Apparition also, "Jones! Weasley! I expect prefects to maintain order more successfully, or that failing, at least, conduct themselves with a measure of decorum!"

"Yes, sorry, Professor," Bill and Sarah chorused, and, finally, silence descended upon the group of four young witches and wizards.

For the rest of the day, Bill found that he could not pay attention in his lessons, as when he was not whispering to his peers about the glories of Apparition, he was relishing them mentally, and crossing his fingers, hoping that his parents would agree to front the cash for the lessons, because he was pretty sure that Chris' family would not be delighted about paying for another student's classes...Finally, the school day ended, and, after dinner, Bill penned a polite, but pleading owl to his parents, begging them to pay for Apparition lessons, before he worked on his homework with Chris and Mike. To his considerable relief and joy, Errol arrived the next morning at breakfast, bearing a letter from his mum, which told him that he could sign-up for Apparition, of course, and that she and her father had simply forgotten to tell him so, in the hustle and bustle of living. This Bill took to mean that they had been away from Hogwarts so long that it had slipped their minds that six-years learned to Apparate. Whatever the case, he had gotten the answer he had hardly dared to hope for, and so immediately mailed them a thank-you note, lest they think him ungrateful, and change their minds.

Although for over a week and a half, Apparition and its infinite wonders dominated the exchanges of the sixth-years, the topic did eventually lose some of its drama, as all people were really doing was repeating over and over the words others had said. Once Apparition dropped out of their conversations, it slipped out of their minds, and Bill was as surprised as anyone when a notice was pinned onto the Gryffindor bulletin board, proclaiming that Apparition lessons were scheduled for the first Saturday morning in February, which, as Chris commented sourly, meant that no ordinary lessons would be missed, and would occur in the Great Hall.

On the appointed day, Bill, Chris, Mike, Jason, Brian, Jennifer, Stephanie, and Heather all went down to the Great Hall together, because, now that the big day had overtaken them at last, they were anxious, and not at all sure they really desired to learn Apparition, which is why they felt more secure in large numbers. After all, a gang of incompetent beings somehow did not seem as stupid as a single substandard individual. When they first walked through the doors, Bill thought that, despite their six years apiece in this institution, they had accidentally entered the wrong chamber, but then his reason caught up with his senses when he spotted the bundles of his nervous peers tied tightly together. Clearly, they were in the right place, and, just as obviously, the only reason the Great Hall seemed odd was because all the House tables had been removed. For some silly reason he did not even comprehend himself, Bill found that their absence made him uneasy, as if the situation he was about to be thrust into was all the more unfamiliar, because the Great Hall he thought he knew had been changed so dramatically merely by the removal of a few pieces of furniture that he had taken the presence of for granted.

Still somewhat wrong-footed by the change in decor, Bill followed his friends without fully being aware of his actions as they assembled before Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Snape, and Sprout, and a small, irritable, and toad-like looking witch who Bill assumed must be the Ministry approved Apparition instructor. On first glance, Bill took an immediate dislike to her, because she was wearing a revolting fluffy pink cardigan that had gone out of fashion at least a century ago, and had chosen to top of the look with a disgusting Alice band that even his mum would not have forced Ginny to don.

When she was satisfied that all her students were present, the witch coughed several times to attract their attention, and then said in a sweet tone that somehow held all the menace of a rattlesnake, "Good morning. I must say how very nice it is to be back teaching another group of Hogwarts students Apparition for the second year in a row. I am Dolores Jane Umbridge, and I work at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Magical Transport, and am second in command at the Apparition Test Center sub-department, but you may just call me Professor Umbridge. Now, we shall be studying a carefully constructed, Ministry-approved curriculum every Saturday for twelve weeks. At that time, the Ministry of Magic will be issuing tests to all those who have reached their seventeenth birthday on or prior to that date. If you don't have the pleasure of being born before that date, don't feel too badly, because, you can, of course, sign up to take the same test in the summer. If you have any personal questions, feel free to see me at any time, because I'm sure we'll all be the very best of friends in no time at all."

Snorting, because he highly doubted that this would indeed be the case, Bill looked around, and saw that Chris and Mike were chortling at the witch's words, and Jennifer, Steph, and Heather were giggling behind their hands at the attire 'Professor' Umbridge had worn. Brian and Jason were rolling their eyes at one another. None of the other faces he could spot seemed particularly eager to strike up a friendship with Professor Umbridge, either. At least he wasn't alone in his detestation of her, which meant that plenty of his fellow pupils would laugh when he mocked her for her babyish voice.

"Now, let's get down to business, shall we?" inquired Umbridge in what was undoubtedly supposed to be a pleasant manner. "After all, time flies by faster than we expect, and soon our time together will come to an end..."

"Unfortunately," snickered Jennifer.

"Yeah, what a tragedy," added Steph, blinking her eyes as if to hold back tears.

"I don't know how I'll go on living," Heather finished.

Normally, Professor McGonagall would have reprimanded them thoroughly for such an interjection, but she did not seem compelled to do so now, as she did not appear to be to fond of the Apparition instructor, either, as her flaring nostrils, thin lips, and contracted eyebrows attested.

For her part, Umbridge only smiled coolly in the direction of the three girls, and went on, "All that means, however, is that we shall have to make the best of the time which we have to share with each other. Therefore, I believe we will start our first lesson this instant, as we don't want to fall behind already. Now, how many of you know that it is impossible to operate within the grounds of Hogwarts?" The final sentence came out painstakingly, with long pauses between every syllable, as though Umbridge was convinced that everyone else was as dumb as she was, a fact Bill personally found insulting.

Everyone in the hall's hands rose dully, their eyes rolling, and snorts emitting from their mouths and noses as they tried to conceal the contempt they felt for Umbridge.

Blissfully unaware of their pent-up animosity toward her, Umbridge sailed on in her sing-song way, "That's wonderful, so everyone here understands that they are not permitted to practice Apparition outside the confines of this Great Hall during or after Apparition classes, and that after lessons are over, students are not to Apparate in the Great Hall. Anyone who does so will have some gruesome consequences that I shudder to think about happening to such charming little boys and girls." Her face, though, belied her words, for her artificial grin became genuine for the first time since the outset of the class, and her eyes danced at the mere mention of gory occurrences. "This is the case because Professor Dumbledore, your headmaster whom I have nothing but the utmost esteem for, has graciously and wisely agreed to lift the enchantment that prohibits Apparition on the grounds only in the Great Hall for one hour every week. Now, I would appreciate it immensely if you all separated a tad from each other, so that you have approximately five feet of space around you, because if you are successful in Apparting, you will require that room."

At these words, a regulated mayhem ensued as people moved apart from their neighbors, and ended up colliding with each other. Irritably, everyone cursed at those who stepped on their toes, and ordered their neighbors out of their personal space. Rolling their eyes at each other in exasperation at the foolishness of their year-mates, Bill, Chris, and Mike separated without any such childish disputes, as Jennifer, Heather, and Stephanie did the same. Finally, with the assistance of the Heads of House, who went about shuffling their house members into relatively orderly lines, a task that Umbridge did not deign to participate in, everybody was in place, and, at the shouted command from the four Hogwarts Professors for quiet, silence fell over the hall once again.

"Thank you," beamed Professor Umbridge and Bill resisted the overpowering temptation of plugging his ears. "Minerva, would you mind terribly?"

Even from his location in the center of the Great Hall, Bill could see McGonagall's tightening lips, although she did whip out her wand, and wave it languidly. Instantly, old-fashioned wooden hoops materialized on the floor before every pupil.

"Those will work just fine." Umbridge nodded in satisfaction. "Boys and girls, the Ministry of Magic has devised a simple three-step program for learning Apparition, because often basic methods of instruction reap the most crops. The three-steps are quite simple to remember, I'm pleased to announce, because they all start with the letter 'D.' The three D's stand for destination, determination, and deliberation. Step one is entitled destination since you should focus on you desired destination, which, in this instance, obviously, is the interior of your hoop. Everyone concentrate on your hoop now, please."

Like every other student in the chamber, Bill glanced furtively to his left and right to ascertain that his classmates were indeed staring into their hoops reflectively before he did so, because, after all, it was a potentially humiliating thing to do, but if everyone else was doing it, he could hardly be teased for doing so. Unfortunately, he discovered that it was rather challenging to focus on a dull slab of marble, whose greatest point of interest was a smudge of dirt and dust in its center.

"Step two is referred to as determination, because you must be determined to make yourself occupy that visualized space, which, may I remind you, is the middle of your hoop, in this particular case. Could everyone try to do that now?"

Biting his lower lip in frustration at being addressed as if he were an infant throwing a temper tantrum, Bill tried to convince himself that he wanted to enter the hoop more than anything. As this was hardly the case, he found this a difficult endeavor.

"Step three involves whirling on the spot, feeling your path into nothingness, and moving with deliberation," Umbridge completed. "Does anyone have a question before they try the last step?"

Bill himself felt slightly alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly, because it was supposed to be really dangerous, and he did not want to lose a limb or something equally or more dreadful. To his relief, when he gazed surreptitiously around, he saw that most of the teenagers in the hall were just as discomfited.

To his surprise, Sarah Jones' hand sliced through the air. "Excuse me, but are you actually going to show us how to Apparate?"

For some reason unable to be understood by Bill, Umbridge deemed this inquiry as amusing, for she issued a faint girlish giggle. "Oh, dear, don't be silly. Why on earth would you need a visual demonstration after I have told you all you need to know verbally?"

"So you mean to say that you're never going to actually show us how you Apparate yourself?" demanded Sarah's best friend, Jillian.

"Yes, my dear, that's exactly what I mean," trilled Umbridge, and Bill wished he could perform a Silencing Charm on her more than he had wanted anything in his life, even that trip to Brazil.

"So why exactly did our parents need to pay extra money for these classes?" Sarah pressed in her snobby, superior voice, although Bill was beginning to sympathize with her arguments. "I mean, if you aren't actually going to demonstrate anything, why in the name of Merlin can't any of our normal professors teach us Apparition?"

"Yeah," several other people throughout the hall chorused.

"Don't be silly, dears. They aren't qualified to teach Apparition," laughed Umbride, throwing back her head in humor.

"Why not?" scowled Bill, irritated, because, as far as he could see, Sarah had a legitimate point. Sarah pivoted about to face him, her eyes agog in shock, because the two of them had never been friendly, and Bill suspected that she had figured out that he found her manner grating. He shrugged at her, as if to say that who the argument came from did not necessarily ruin its applicability, as he pressed, "After all, they teach us all the time, don't they, and the headmaster obviously trusts them to do a decent job."

"Yes, but they are not Ministry certified to teach Apparition," Umbridge answered even more slowly than was typical with her, "as I am. Now, if nobody has any further questions, I want you to try to Apparate for me. There will be no need to talk."

Having forgotten what the three D's stood for by now, Bill attempted and failed to fix his thoughts on the hoop again, and, after a moment, spun on the spot, lost balance, and nearly fell over onto Mike, who was standing on his left, as Chris almost banged into him from the right. The three boys were not the only ones who had stumbled, for the whole hall was loaded with staggering beings, and a handful of the more clumsy ones were sprawled on their backs in rather comical fashions.

After readjusting their hoops, everyone tried Apparition a second time and were not anymore successful, and the same held true for the third, fourth, and fifth time they did so. In fact, it was not until their fifth try that anything that could be classified as the remotest progress occurred. There was a terrible screech of agony to Bill's left, and looking in that direction, he realized that the shouter had been Brian, who had landed in his hoop with his arm dislodged from his body, lying three feet away from him. Although Umbridge turned away from Brian, the four Hogwarts professors converged on him, waved their wands, and with a massive puff of indigo smoke, Brian's arm was reattached.

"Splinching happens when the mind is insufficiently determined," Umbridge informed Brian, smiling in her sickening manner. "Try again, please, everyone."

At the conclusion of the lesson, however, after at least twenty more attempts, Brian's Splinching was still the most encouraging thing that had happened during the lesson, a fact that did not seem to inhibit Umbridge, although all her pupils were plainly discouraged by this.

As the month of February dragged along, a couple more people, including Mike and Chris, who claimed that it hurt like nothing they had ever experienced, managed to Splinch themselves, both of them losing a leg. During their first lesson in March, Jennifer finally Apparated successfully, although she could not explain how she had done so in the following lessons. Soon everyone, except Bill and Sarah Jones were able to Apparate, a state of being that Bill found tremendously aggravating, as he hated not being able to do something that virtually everybody else could, and, to add insult to injury, he had to share this stigma with Sarah, whom he didn't fancy sharing anything with.

Therefore, on the morning of their first lesson in April, Bill traipsed down to the Great Hall alongside Chris and Mike with low expectations. He was even considering not taking the test on April twenty-first with all the other eligible six-years, although he had agreed to attend the extra practice sessions in Hogsmeade with Chris and Mike, reasoning that the extra experience could hardly be amiss. His mood was not brightened by the fact that he had no more success during this class than he had during the previous ones, and he was in a foul temper when the door to the hall banged open, destroying his concentration on the ground inside his stupid hoop, revealing a sobbing Jillian Fletcher.

"You're late, Miss Fletcher," Professor Flitwick reproved her before Umbridge could even open her mouth.

"Sarah's late, too," sobbed Jill, collapsing in a heap upon the marble floor, tears pouring down her cheeks like summer rain, "although in an entirely different sense, of course."

"What do you mean by that, Miss Fletcher?" asked Professor Flitwick, hurrying over to her, as a crowd of students formed around her. Bill and his fellow sixth-year Gryffindors began making their way over to Jill, curious as to what had distressed her, as Snape, McGonagall, and Sprout pushed their way to the front of the horde of pupils so they could stand over Jillian, who was wailing into the palms of her hands now.

"I mean she's dead and gone, and she's not ever coming back," whimpered Jillian, refusing to glance up at her Head of House and Charms master.

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Professor Flitwick earnestly, as McGonagall and Sprout's hands flew to their chests in shock. All around him, Bill could hear stunned hisses, as students repeated this update to each other.

Bill himself was too surprised to speak. It was as though Jillian had expressed this revelation in a language that he had no prayer of understanding, for her words had no meaning for him, because he could not comprehend them, not really. Sarah Jones could not be dead. She just couldn't be. It was utterly impossible. The girl was too headstrong, proud, and determined to up and die without putting up some sort of struggle. Besides, people his age didn't die. Sure, he recognized on a purely theoretical basis, that it was possible, but it would never actually happen, and if it did, the odds definitely ruled that it ought never to happen to anyone he knew.

Feeling weak-boned himself, much like he was certain Jill did, Bill studied his peers, and saw in their faces a reflection of his own confounded emotions. They all wore faintly bemused expressions, as if they had all gotten lost and had, therefore, intruded upon a private meeting by mistake, and maybe they had, for Jillian's grief was too raw to be completely decent. Yet Bill was willing to hazard a guess that this wasn't why he and his year-mates felt so lost. No, they felt so disoriented because their view of the world had just expanded tremendously, and they saw the planet as a scarier, more threatening environment to inhabit.

None of them could comprehend how someone as young and as healthy as they were, someone in the burgeoning flower of adolescence, someone they had worked alongside and studied alongside for six tedious years, a classmate whose steady, though overbearing presence they had not truly noticed or fully appreciated, could be gone from them for as long as their own lives endured. Simply put, how could someone be here on earth one minute, and gone the next? How could a person disappear like apple pie in a room full of famished teenagers?

Bill could understand this feeling, because, they, like him, had all been utterly convinced of their own immortality, as youthful and as strong as they were, that the death of one of their own rattled their complacent theory to the core, and made them acknowledge the tenuous foundation of their own existence.

From a lengthy distance off, he heard Professor Flitwick inquire gently, his hand resting delicately on Jill's heaving shoulder, "Miss Jones killed herself, didn't she?"

"Yes," moaned Jillian, and Bill felt a powerful wave of sympathy drown his heart. It must be worse than dying yourself to come across the empty corpse of your best friend, because you would never be able to escape the claws of guilt, and that terrible, traitorous voice inside your soul that whispered that there was something you could have done to assist your best friend, something you ought to have done, but neglected to do with foolish problems of your own. "She stole some rattlesnake venom from our N.E.W.T Potions, apparently, and s-s-she chose to t-t-take it on her birthday, and she didn't want me to s-s-stop her, so she bid me wait in the common room while she finished getting r-r-ready. Finally, I got impatient of waiting around for her, and I ran back up to the dormitory, screaming about how― how she was making us late, and how she would n-n-never learn to Apparate if she wasn't punctual for classes. Then I barged into the dorm…it was there that I found her, lying there, her skin as pale as uncorrupted snow, her face relaxed and free for once, and her body cold, like ice…deathly cold…" Sobs wracked Jill's body and she trailed off as Snape whisked out of the Great Hall, no doubt to ascertain that Sarah was truly dead, and that there was not an antidote he could give her.

Bill shuddered, envisioning entering a room and seeing that Mike or Chris had committed such an irrevocable deed. It would probably be enough to make him rage at them for not leaving enough of the toxic substance to transport him to the afterlife, as well. But he would never kill himself― then again, that was most likely what Sarah had believed, and, yet, she had done so, in a cool, detached fashion, if Jillian's description of her facial expression had been accurate. And Chris and Mike would never commit suicide, either, for what reason would any of the three of them have to do so?

Yet what would prompt Sarah Jones, a prefect, a brilliant student, and every teacher's pet, to swallow a vat of poison? Why in the name of Merlin would a girl who had it all want to lose it? Maybe she didn't have it all, reasoned Bill. There must have been something awful going on in her life. She could have had an abusive boyfriend or parent, he rationalized, recollecting the cuts he had seen on Sarah's arms during Transfiguration in January. That had to be it. The coursework at Hogwarts was not that stressful or competitive, it simply could not be, because Bill refused to accept such a conclusion. If he did, then Sarah's fate might apply to him and all teenagers, instead of being an anomaly.

"She was so damn could because she was dead, since she had murdered herself." Jillian tugged on her hair, as if she wanted nothing more than to forcibly remove every strand from her scalp as painfully as it was possible to do so. Perhaps she was unintentionally punishing herself for her best friend's eternal error. "Why the heck would she do it? Why couldn't she have talked to me about her problems, for heaven's sake? Then we could have found solutions together, and she would not feel so alone, so desperate, that she had to take her own l-l-life. Oh, it makes me want to kill myself!"

"Hush now," soothed Professor Flitwick, although he was clearly afraid to interfere with the natural healing process by performing a Cheering Charm on her. "You're not thinking, and you're being completely irrational."

"I won't be quiet, Professor. I shan't be quiet ever again!" Jillian wailed hysterically. "It was my not speaking up that got Sarah where she is today. It was thanks to my silence that she is dead. Sarah can put all the blame on me, not on herself, and see if that can save her soul― I hope to God it does, though it may condemn mine, because I remained silent, when I should have spoken out, when every particle of my being screamed for me to. I should've told someone that she had she had cuts all down her arms. I should have explained that those cuts weren't from her new owl, Plato, like she claimed, but from herself. I should've detailed how she was depressed because she was having difficulty with non-verbal spells, she could not Apparate, and she had not achieved only ten O.W.L.'s. By my silence, I failed her. I failed my very best friend! That's why I shan't be quiet again!"

After expressing as much, Jillian, however, did stop speaking, although her cries continued unabated. Following this, nobody could get anything remotely sensible out of Jillian, and Professor McGonagall, regaining her usual, brisk, authoritative manner, shooed all the pupils except Jill out of the Great Hall, informing them that Apparition lessons were over for the day.

Still to numb to speak to each other, the Gryffindor sixth-years returned to their common room.

"Did you hear that Sarah's funeral was today?" Heather inquired softly three day's later. She, Bill, Mike, Chris, Jennifer, and Steph were clustered around the fire, doing their homework in the fitful evening light in the warm, crowded common room.

"No," replied Steph, "I didn't know that."

"Me neither," Jennifer muttered sadly, her eyes downcast. "I would have liked to have attended it."

"Do you mind not talking about death while I'm trying to do my Charms homework?" Bill grumbled, scowling as he realized that the jump he had made at the sound of Sarah's name had caused him to spill ink all over his essay for Flitwick, before he pulled out his wand and siphoned off the ink. "It's distracting." This remark was the truth, because he never desired to think about Sarah Jones again in his life, not because they had never gotten along well, but, because, since her death, he had come to appreciate her more. Death was vicious, as it turned everyone into an angel.

All three girls ignored this contribution, as Heather nodded her head in assent with Jennifer's comment. "I know, me too, but, apparently her parents wanted it to be a quiet funeral."

"Why?" demanded a bewildered Jennifer. "You'd think they'd appreciate knowing that other people cared about their daughter's death, so that they would see that they aren't alone in their sorrow, and that her life did have an impact on others."

"Yeah, if I had lost my child I would want to know that at least they had made a positive contribution in some other beings lives," Steph seconded this. "Then I would at least realize that they had the pleasure of living before they died."

"That's what I thought, too," Heather murmured, "but her parents don't feel that way at all. In fact, from what I heard, they blame us for her killing herself."

"What?" This time it was Chris who spoke, his tone incredulous. "How in the world do they reach that conclusion? Do they think we held a vat of poison beneath her nose, and told her to drink it, or else nobody would like her, or something equally atrocious?"

"I don't know." Heather shrugged. "But I'd say they probably just think that we were not trying to be harsh, but we ended up putting too much pressure on her, and that this pressure caused her to snap. If it makes you feel any better, they didn't want any professors present, either, because it seems that the pressure exerted on her by her teachers was a factor in her suicide."

"Of course they don't want any professors to attend," drawled Mike. "I'd be rolling over in my coffin if my parents had teachers go to my funeral, because it would mean that even in death I could not escape them and their lectures."

The others chuckled quietly, still unable to truly laugh after Sarah's passing. Then Heather resumed in her shy voice, "But Sarah's parents permitted her best friend, Jillian Fletcher to attend, though."

"That's good, because I can't imagine how distraught Jill would be if she couldn't go," stated Jennifer.

"She might have killed herself, as well," Stephanie remarked grimly, "you know, best friends forever: friends in life, and friends in death."

At these words, Bill shivered, although he could not understand why exactly his body performed this action. "Can we talk about something else? Like Quidditch?"

"Channeling Charlie much?" teased Jennifer.

"How come boys only ever want to babble on about Quidditch, which nobody cares about?" Steph complained simultaneously, and the two lasses looked at each other in amusement, their lips quirked.

"He's probably feeling guilty," reasoned Heather, eyeing Bill closely, anticipating some kind of reaction, which he gave her when he lowered his eyes, "because, after all, he was always a bit, well, terse with her."

"Because she was an arrogant know-it-all," Bill reminded her.

"You ought not to speak ill of the dead," snapped Heather, as Jennifer and Stephanie shot arrows at him with their eyeballs, an astonishing feat.

"I'm not," Bill protested, "I'm speaking the truth. She was an arrogant know-it-alll, and that grated on my every nerve, and she was convinced that I was an arrogant, indolent git who just was lucky enough to get good marks, and that annoyed her to no end. Still, I never wanted her dead, and I never expected her to do such a thing, and I never told her that she should. I refuse to take any of the blame for her actions, though I'm very sorry she's gone. I don't like life without her anymore than any of you do. That's why I don't want to talk about it. Anyway, there's no profit in yammering on about it, is there? I mean, what's done is done, and can hardly be undone, even with a Time-Tuner, I expect, as no magic can bring back the dead." The final gem was included as a result of the three years at Hogwarts that he had spent with a Time-Turner about his neck as he juggled twelve subjects.

"What do you want to talk about, then?" asked Heather, sounding a tad miffed.

"I said Quidditch," Bill refreshed her memory, grinning in mockery, as he finished with his Charms, and took out his Potions work, instead.

"And I said no, we aren't discussing Quidditch yet _again_." Heather folded her arms haughtily.

"I'm beginning to comprehend why you two split up," commented Chris, smirking at the pair of them.

"Oh, this was nowhere near as bad as that shouting match." Heather waved her hand dismissively, snickering.

"Yeah, we were actually angry at each other that time," added Bill, laughing, as he scribbled down a sentence in his Potions paper. "Right, Chris, next time you want your future told, go to a palmist, not a mind-reader, because I know you've got a palm."

"So what do you really want to talk about?" demanded Heather.

"Apparition practice in Hogsmeade on Saturday," he replied. "I'm sure that I'll do loads better this time. I mean, it'll be much more exciting to actually be Apparating somewhere besides into a blasted hoop."

"Yes, I'm sure you'll do wonderfully," responded the others dully, having heard Bill voice similar sentiments before many an Apparition lesson, just to be proven incorrect in the next such class.

However, this time the fates deigned to support him in this claim for once, and when he went into Hogsmeade with all the other sixth-years who would be turning seventeen by the test date in April, he was able to Apparate to outside of Madam Puddifoot's with the rest a grand total of three times in a row. Therefore, he was more optimistic about his chances of passing the Apparition test, which was why he signed up for it after the practice round in Hogsmeade.

This was a valiant action he regretted immensely when the day of the exam rolled around, and he was crowded on a bench in the sun-and-shade dappled courtyard with his friends during the break before they were all examined, skimming over each other's shoulders the Ministry provided leaflet _Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them _that Umbridge had shoved into their hands when they had registered for the test. When the bell that marked the end of break finally rang, he and his companions trudged back up into the castle, heading toward the Great Hall…the next thing he knew, he was standing before his ancient examiner. Then he was staring into the hoop, trying to convince himself that he wanted to occupy that place, and then he was pivoting on his heel, as he reached out into nothingness…all of him had appeared in the designated hoop, and his examiner was telling him that he had passed. After the requisite paperwork was completed, Bill left the Great Hall with Chris, Mike, Jennifer, Heather, Steph. Jason and Brian were not with them as both boys were not born until the summer, and so would have to take their test at a later date.

As he departed, Bill found himself thinking about Sarah Jones for what he suspected would be the very last time in his life. It was a pity she had d never learned to Apparate. He still did not understand her decision to terminate her life, because there was still so much she had yet to learn and experience, and just because she had not been able to do something one day, that didn't mean that she would have the handicap the next. After all, he had done just that with Apparition, which, she, too, had struggled with. He had achieved Apparition here on earth, and he prayed that, on some level, Sarah had accomplished it as well, for he sincerely hoped that she, having disappeared here, would reappear somewhere else. At the very least, she was halfway there, he noted.


	25. Chapter 25

Head Boy and Quidditch Captain

Disclaimer: Of course it's all mine, and I've acquired a dukedom in France as well. (Gets a reality check.) Wait, I lied, actually nothing except the plot is mine, and some of those ideas have been created thanks to reviewers, and, lastly, no, I don't have a dukedom in France.

Author's Note: This chapter is considerably lighter than the last chapter, although Sarah's suicide will be discussed. I hope this will supply some sort of closure with regard to her choice to end her life, at least as much closure can be provided in such a case. Anyway, it has more of the lighter aspects of the earlier chapters. (What can I say, I'm actually a cheerful person.) Thanks to my school for having a holiday fest, so I could spend most of the day writing this, when I wasn't helping elementary inner city kids get pizza/chicken nuggets/ sandwich.

Reviews: Let me know what you think, and I'll reply nicely. Hey, if you tell me what you don't like, you might just see an improvement.

"Bill! Charlie!" Molly Weasley's shout echoed up the stairs of the Burrow until it reached the bedroom of her two eldest sons, who both grumbled, and rolled over, covering their heads with their blankets to drown out her voice. "Come downstairs at once! I want to talk to the pair of you!"

When she received no reply from her oldest children, Mrs. Weasley hollered their names a second time, and Bill concluded that it would be impossible to sleep with his mum's screaming interrupting his attempts to return to dreamland every couple of seconds. Capitulating, he called, "Coming, Mum!"

Then he crossed over to his brother, who was pretending to snore powerfully, and shook the stocky frame roughly. "Let's get a move on, Charlie. I know perfectly well that you're awake, idiot."

"Go away," responded Charlie with drowsy irritation," if Mum comes upstairs to fetch us, she won't know I'm awake." He glared at his sibling menacingly. "As long as you don't decide to follow Percy's excellent example and blow my cover, prat."

"I'm not a tattle-tale, and I never was," riposted Bill, "unlike you. Now come on, for the sooner we go down and see what on earth she wants of us, the quicker we'll be able to go back to sleep."

"You'd better be right, or I'll put you in an eternal sleep," mumbled Charlie, propelling himself out of his bed, and the two teenaged boys thundered down the steps into the kitchen, from whence their mother called.

The instant they arrived in the kitchen, they were both swept up into a rib-crushing hug by Mrs. Weasley. "Oh, Billy and Charlie, I'm just so proud of you both!"

"Huh?" panted Charlie, nearly asphyxiated by his parent's tight embrace. The strangled quality of his comment alerted Mrs. Weasley to the fact that she was murdering the pair of them, and she released them, crimson-faced and beaming with maternal pride.

"Oh, Charlie dear, you've been made a prefect, just like Bill was in his fifth-year!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, kissing Charlie, whose cheeks were the hue of autumn apples, all over his face, despite his muffled protests. "And you've been made Quidditch Captain, too! That's two magnificent achievements." She patted Charlie's cheek fondly before turning excitedly upon her eldest offspring, and blurting out, "Also, since you've made a prefect, Charlie dear, you could be made Head Boy, just like Bill has."

It was Bill's chance to be smothered by his mother's kisses. "I'm just so very proud of you two—you're both such amazing sons. I've sent Errol with a letter to your father at work, and he's going to be simply thrilled, dears. As a reward for all the hard work the pair of you have put in, the next time I go to Diagon Alley, I'm going to purchase that new Cleansweep you've been talking about all summer, Charlie, and, as for you, Bill, I'm buying you an owl to have all to yourself this time, no matter what you say on the contrary. After all, in just one year, you'll be out of Hogwarts and in the business world, and then you'll have need of a decent owl to transport messages for you."

Bill could not contest such an assessment, because, after all, if he started a career in a faraway country, he would probably have even more need of an owl than he would if he remained in England. However, he did hope that this sentence would not be the opening to a lecture on how he really must figure out what he wanted to do after graduating from Hogwarts. Fortunately, Mrs. Weasley lost this opportunity, because the sound of Ron's wailing could be heard from above. Clearly, Fred and George were terrorizing their little brother yet again.

"Blast it! Well, not all my children can be lovely," sighed Mrs. Weasley as she departed the kitchen and ran up the stairs, yelling at the dreadful duo to stop taunting Ron this instant.

As the noise of their mother lecturing Fred and George flooded downstairs into the kitchen, Bill and Charlie shrugged at each other, as if to express that it was just an ordinary day in the Weasley household. Then Bill meandered over to the cabinet, and pulled out a box of breakfast cereal and a bowl. As he poured himself a bowl of cereal, he remarked to Charlie, "There's hardly a point in trying to sleep with her ranting on at the terrible twins."

"I reckon you're right." Charlie nodded as he helped himself to some cereal, as well. "I'm still in shock, though. I mean, I expected that I would be made Quidditch Captain now that Hooper has gone and everything..."

"I did, too," Bill smiled at his brother as they sat down at the table across from each other and began to eat breakfast together. "After all, you're the best player the team has got, and probably the best player in the school."

"You said it, not me," laughed Charlie, although he clearly agreed with his sibling's evaluation. "Anyway, my being made Quidditch Captain was not surprising, but I'm amazed that anyone would make me a prefect. I've never been the greatest student, and I do talk out of turn in lessons."

"Ask McGonagall and Dumbledore," Bill told him. "I think they choose. I was shocked, too, when I was made a prefect."

"And now that you're Head Boy?" Charlie's tone was mildly mocking.

"I was most pleasantly surprised. Just think, now I'll get to be the one who lectures you on the honor and responsibility that has been vested in you by the prestigious educational facility of Hogwarts on the train ride to school," teased Bill.

"Can I refuse to become prefect?" moaned the other in feigned despair.

"No, one would be a very irresponsible person to shirk from your duties, and you would be most disloyal to your school if you did so."

"You've got to incorporate some of these lines into your speech."

"So you cannot listen to them then, either?"

"I can't help it if you're boring and uninspiring," Charlie smirked.

"Oh, boring and uninspiring, am I? Well, you'll be happy to know that the Head Girl, whoever she is, and I control the patrol schedules, and I'll be more than willing to dump all the lame hours on you," retorted Bill.

"I'll have my team knock you out with broomsticks in the corridor," Charlie riposted.

"I'll give you all lines," parried his comrade, and they both dissolved into laughter, accidentally sending milk soaring out of their noses onto the table.

When they returned to school, Bill, for some reason, found himself scheduling his patrol hour for five in the morning on Saturday, although, as Head Boy, he could have dumped that time upon some unlucky Slytherin prefect. Instead, he took the responsibility for himself, and let some of his juniors have better hours. He couldn't understand why he felt compelled to do so, but he did, and he acted upon this stirring.

It was on their first Saturday back from the summer holidays that Bill absentmindedly walked through Nearly Headless Nick as he patrolled the corridors at five-thirty in the morning, a time at which no student was likely to be out of bed, roaming the halls, simply because they were all serenely asleep in their various dormitories. Fortunately, Nick did not seem offended by Bill's walking through him, and all he said was, "Morning, Weasley. I hear you've been made Head Boy, is that so?"

"Why, yes, it is," replied Bill, a little wrong-footed still from the icy sensation that had washed over every atom in his body when he had wandered carelessly through Nick, and he indicated the badge on his chest that illustrated his rank. "Sorry I walked through you like that. Clearly, I was not patrolling very well at all, for I didn't see you."

"Think nothing of it, think nothing of it," Nick reassured him dolefully, "for it happens to me rather frequently, you know. Anyway, congratulations on your new status. It's nice to finally have a Gryffindor Head Boy again."

"Thanks."

"So who's the lucky girl that's been made Head Girl?" asked Nick, ignoring his expression of gratitude entirely.

"A Hufflepuff girl named Tammy O'Hara."

"Yes, that's right," Nick mused, "I recollect the Fat Friar bragging about her now...really very indecent of him, because, after all, I'm not bragging about you being made Head Boy."

"That's polite of you," responded Bill, praying that he kept the skepticism out of his tone, since he, quite frankly, suspected that Nearly Headless Nick had boasted about the fact that the Head Boy was a Gryffindor to his fellow Hogwarts ghosts, but, of course, it would be rude to establish as much aloud. "After all, it's not mannerly to brag, and, anyway, everyone knows that Tammy, while she's bright, hard-working, and mature, was not the first choice for Head Girl."

"She wasn't?" Nick demanded, anxious to hear the latest mortal gossip, especially if it would help him rebut the boastings of the Fat Friar.

"Yes," Bill sighed heavily, "everyone, even Tammy, recognizes that Sarah Jones would have been made Head Girl, if she—if she, hadn't done what she did to herself." Even all these months later, he still discovered that a lump came to his throat when he talked about Sarah, and he found that it was a challenge to consider her. In a hurry, he continued briskly, trying to distract himself from Sarah's suicide, "Then, I heard, they tried to nominate Jillian Fletcher, Sarah's best mate, but she refused to be made Head Girl, because of Sarah's death, just the way she turned down the badge offered to her after Sarah's passing."

"I see," murmured Nick, who now seemed uncomfortable, suggesting that even dead people did not like to discuss teenage suicides, "well, it was nice talking to you, and good-bye."

"Hold on a minute." Bill acted on a sudden impulse that he had not realized he had inside him, and Nick, looking wary, faced him once more. "Speaking of Sarah, I've just been wondering what happens when you die."

"You go on," Nick informed him hesitantly.

"Go on where exactly?" pressed Bill.

"I don't know," Nick mumbled, "I didn't choose to go on there, but Sarah obviously decided to do so, because she doesn't seem to have come back as a ghost."

"But, even if you were to commit suicide, your soul would go on to― to the same place as it would if you hadn't, right?" Bill inquired breathlessly, because for some reason unknown to himself, he required closure as far as Sarah was concerned. Now that she no longer inhabited this world, he wanted to know that his former rival dwelt securely elsewhere.

"I don't know," admitted Nearly Headless Nick, "I'm afraid that I daren't say, as I just don't know the answer. From what the Bloody Baron says, he was given the same choice I was: to return to earth and function as an imprint of a departed soul, or to continue on."

"But are there different places you can go on to? Can you go on to paradise or eternal suffering?" Bill demanded desperately.

"I'm afraid I can't be of any further assistance," insisted Nick firmly, and he glided off, leaving a scowling and bewildered adolescent struggling with adult concepts of life and death, in his wake.

For a while, Bill just stood as stiff as a poker, staring off into space as he contemplated his exchange with Nick. Since he had been quite convinced that he was utterly alone when he felt a hand grasp his shoulders, he was surprised. Jumping in alarm, he swiveled on his heel to face the headmaster of Hogwarts. "Oh, it's you, Professor. I wasn't expecting anyone else to be up at this hour, to put it bluntly."

"That would explain your rather exceptional leap, Mr. Weasley," observed Dumbledore seriously, although his azure eyes sparkled merrily. "May I ask what you are doing out of bed at this unnaturally early hour?"

"Patrolling the corridors, sir." Bill's shoulders rose and fell lackadaisically.

"So you decided not to shove the more unpleasant patrol hours off upon some underling, how noble of you."

"Well, I am a Gryffindor, after all." Bill hesitated for moment, then noted, "I suppose it would be terribly impertinent of me to ask what you're doing out of bed at this hour of the morning, Professor."

"It might be, which is why I shall save you the risk of offending me by informing you that I happen to be engaged in a quest to fetch myself a mug of hot chocolate from the kitchens."

Surmising that this was not the true intent behind Dumbledore's roaming the castle at this time, Bill remained silent, but did not dare to accuse the man directly of fibbing. After a brief pause the ancient wizard spoke again. "You are confident that I'm not being completely truthful with you, aren't you, Mr. Weasley?"

Before Bill could counter such an assertion, Dumbledore went on without missing a beat, "Of course, if I am guilty of such an offense, you're not a fit judge, as you haven't been entirely open with me. There is another reason why you are patrolling the corridors now, isn't there?"

"Maybe my other motive is more personal, sir." Remembering that Dumbledore was as much of a master of Legilimency as he was of any other branch of magic, Bill averted his eyes.

"That's not an answer."

There was silence in the hallway for a few minutes, and then the lad confessed awkwardly, "Sarah used to have the patrol detail at this hour."

"Yes." Dumbledore sounded aggrieved. "Yes, she did."

"Professor, may I ask you something?" He was acting on a sudden impulse, but it was possible that Dumbledore, who seemed to the teenager to be all-knowing, would be able to explain what Nick had not.

"Obviously you have just done so, which means that I would be hard pressed indeed to stop you, but you may ask anything you like, although I'm afraid that the asking does not ensure that your will receive a satisfactory answer."

"When― when a person dies, they go on, correct?"

"From what the ghost have been generous enough to tell me, yes." Dumbledore's head bobbed in gentle affirmation, causing his lengthy silver beard to scratch the stone floor for a second or two.

"Do all people go on to the same place, sir?" continued Bill with more passion, his manner faltering no more. "I mean, if You-Know-Who were to die, and he went on, would he go to the same place as― as you, for instance, or Uncles Fabian or Gideon?"

"I think there's justice in the afterlife, yes, Bill, if that's what you're asking," Dumbledore answered gravely.

"So where will Sarah go?" Bill found he was watching the headmaster with narrowed, tense eyes.

"As I said, I believe the one who determines our fate in the afterlife is fair, and, if that is the case, I am confident that whoever judges Sarah's soul will not condemn her for one mistake, nevertheless, the one that suggests that she is most in need of love from others, because she seemed to lack self-love. Similarly, I suspect that whoever determines the destiny of our souls will not deny her the stab at happiness that she was unable to attain here. Does that help?"

Absorbing this revelation, Bill nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, he whispered, "I still don't understand why she did it."

"I have concluded that she took her own life, because she was under a certain amount of pressure," Dumbledore clarified tenderly. "School in one's teenage years can be a place infinitely worse than hell…"

"You're a teacher!" Bill's mouth was agape.

"That's why I'm considerably more qualified in making that assessment than most would be. Anyway, school is even more miserable for those who have no identity―"

"Could you perhaps speak in English, sir?" Bill interrupted, his forehead knitted in befuddlement. "I might, just might, be able to understand you then."

As studied the boy before him seriously, Dumbledore's fingers steepled. "She defined herself by her grades alone, like everyone else did, at least in her opinion. As long as her grades were nothing short of excellent, she was as content as a perfectionist can be, bit the instant they started to slip, she was a stupid failure―"

"What? Nobody ever thought that!" Bill established vehemently. "We all thought that she was an arrogant know-it-all, actually."

"Exactly, she felt as though her one achievement was slipping right through her hands, meaning, in her heart, where such things count the most, she was a failure. After awhile, she just gave up, tired of attempting not to be a failure."

"She was a coward, you mean?" glowered Bill.

"Perhaps, but one should never be hasty in reaching conclusions, or be too harsh in our judgments of others, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore educated him sagely. "Courage, I'm sorry to inform you, is not something everyone is blessed with, for some of us are more brave than others, just as some are more quick-witted, or better at Quidditch." When Bill opened his mouth to debate this point, by contending that Quidditch and scholastic ability was different than personality, the professor held up a hand to quell his speech. "It is also possible that she was very courageous, as she may have realized that she was but lent to this world, as are we all, and decided to take her destiny into her own hands by killing herself, thereby leaving this world on her own terms."

"I think in Sarah's case it is more likely the former, as opposed to the latter," observed Bill dryly.

"You may very well be correct," Dumbledore agreed, bowing, "but you'll never know for sure, at least not in this lifetime, where such things seem to matter the most, so you should learn to accept the fact that Sarah's dead, and, hopefully, is resting eternally in peace, without passing judgment upon her. After all, it's not your place."

"Yes, Professor." Bill nodded obediently, biting his lower lip pensively.

As he walked away, Dumbledore pivoted abruptly. "Keep in mind, William, that part of the reason why we condemn suicides is rooted in our own innate fear of death. Fear sparks anger, remember that. When you no longer fear death, Sarah's actions will not plague you so. Death, after all, is really nothing to be frightened of, as it is merely the next great adventure, and is not nearly so horrifying as many of the living make it out to be. At any rate, it is inevitable, so one might as well make peace with it."

"Thank-you, Professor. Enjoy your cocoa." By the last line, he hoped to catch the older man off-guard, and gain the satisfaction of having proof of the headmaster's lie.

However, his ploy did not work, for Dumbledore was not wrong-footed, and only responded placidly, "Have an eventful patrol. I'm sure you'll see people much better in the halls, now, which, surprisingly enough, is the point of patrolling the corridors."

As Bill watched the elderly magician depart, he determined that this afternoon he would assign a Slytherin prefect to patrol the hallways at five in the morning on Saturday, because, peculiarly, he no longer felt drawn to the corridors for the five o'clock patrol.


	26. Chapter 26

A Hairy Issue

Disclaimer: Guess what? It's still not mine. Boy, I am full of surprises today.

Author's Note: This chapter is very light again, so I hope you enjoy it. My inspiration came from the fact that Bill and Molly are always arguing about Bill's hair, so I thought, why not during Bill's teens, too?

Reviews: Are very helpful, and if you write one, I can respond, and fix any problems that you spot. If you don't say anything, you have to live with my errors forever...so speak up, or live in misery.

The evening after Bill, Charlie, and Percy returned home from Hogwarts for their Christmas holidays, Molly Weasley whipped out her wand, as though it were a saber, and pointed it ominously at her two oldest boys. "You're both getting a haircut, right now."

"No, Mum, we like our hair just fine the way it is, thanks," her two sons protested, both of them looking at her wand with alert brown eyes.

"Don't be silly, dears," chided Mrs. Weasley. "Your hair is getting really long and unruly, especially yours, Bill, since you seem to have neglected it for such a tremendous time frame that you must now wear it in that horrid ponytail—"

"I resent that, Mum," Bill endeavored to keep his tone calm, although he hated when she insulted his excellent fashion sense, which was obviously the best in the family's, even though Ginny was shaping up quite nicely in that regard, "because I happen to be quite fond of my ponytail, and so is everyone I know at Hogwarts."

"Oh, dear, I'm sure your friends and girlfriend just don't what to hurt your feelings, but really, I'm absolutely certain that they'd prefer it shorter," Mrs. Weasley insisted, hands on hips.

Irritably, Bill turned to face Charlie. "We've always been honest chaps with each other, right?"

"Brutally honest, mate." Charlie nodded. "You're the one shoves me into the showers after Quidditch practices and matches, and cuts my hair, because I don't look good with it long."

"Because you never bother to comb it or anything," explained Bill seriously, "besides, we can't look too similar, that'd be weird, and people would think that we didn't have our own tastes and all. So, anyway, you'd tell me how my hair really looks, correct?"

"Of course I would," Charlie agreed, but he did not seem to feel obligated to expound upon the idea, and was silent.

"And what do you think of my hair?" pressed Bill patiently. "Come on, Char, don't spare my feelings any."

"I think the ponytail is cool," Charlie announced in his steadfast manner. Looking at his mother, he amended, "And it's not just me who thinks so, mind. Everyone—the Quidditch team, Dan, Matt, Tonks, and, well, everybody who's anybody—says the same. Bill's always been one of the most fashionable people in the Gryffindor tower, in the whole school, probably, and everybody with two thoughts in their head knows that much, and even if they don't know enough to fill a peanut about anything else."

"I don't think much of the ponytail, if you ask me," commented Percy pompously from his perch on a kitchen chair where he was reading a book for Transfiguration before their mum could respond to this rebuttal. "It just demonstrates plainly that you need to learn how to perform a simple Hair-Cutting Charm, Bill."

"Frankly, I'm shocked you consider yourself to be anybody, which was what I said, 'everybody who's anybody', and, by that definition, your opinion doesn't matter," muttered Charlie out of the corner of his mouth, causing Bill to snigger, because, unlike him and Charlie, Percy had never been popular, although he had two friends, Kimberly Wagnar and Oliver Wood now, two beings Bill respected immensely for their valor and endurance. If he had to deal with Percy all day every day, he might very well throw himself out a window. Better yet, he'd hurl Percy from a window.

"You'll also note that nobody asked you, Percy," Bill reasoned, "and, for your information, I actually can perform a basic Hair-Cutting Charm. I got an 'Outstanding' in my Charms O.W.L., remember? I just don't want to perform it on myself, because my hair looks loads better this way."

As he frequently did, Percy ignored any interjections in his oration, and continued, now addressing Mrs. Weasley, "Mother, I am utterly convinced that you're right, as always. That is, Bill is, after all, Head Boy, and what kind of example does it set for him to be wandering around with his hair as long as many girls'? Not a very favorable one, if you ask me. Besides, if Bill walks around with his hair in that rebellious style, who on earth will listen to him? Students cannot be expected to take someone who dresses like a rebel seriously."

"They take him more seriously than they take you, for Christ's sake," snapped Charlie before Bill could reply, "you're a laughingstock, so I suggest you don't give lessons until you've passed the course."

"Be nice to your brother, Charles!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Or else I'll send you to your bedroom for the rest of the day after I finish trimming your hair, and I'll make sure that Bill doesn't go up with you, and, while you're up there, you'll be folding a week's worth of laundry!"

"Why the heck do I have to be nice to Percy, but Percy doesn't have to be nice to Bill?" argued Charlie, arms crossed.

"Because she loves Percy loads more than she loves me," Bill supplied with the air of an angel.

"That is not true, and you know it, William!" Mrs. Weasley blew up at her oldest child, instead. "Your father and I love you all just the same, no matter how terribly you behave. However, Charlie is older than Percy, and, therefore, takes Charlie's comments more to heart than you take Percy's."

For a moment, she glared at her two eldest offspring, seeing if they would challenge her on this point. When they didn't, she snarled, "So who wants their hair cut first?"

Bill and Charlie glanced at each other, silently imploring one another to go first. To indicate that he was not willing to go first, Bill crossed his arms. Sighing at his sibling, Charlie volunteered, "I'll go first then, Mum."

With a grim expression on her face, Mrs. Weasley shoved him into a vacant kitchen chair across from Percy, and waved her wand at his head. For a moment, a cloud of orange mist shrouded him, and, the next second, his hair was at least three inches shorter. "There, dear, you look loads better now," she reassured Charlie as he pushed himself out of the seat, launched himself across the kitchen, opened the drawer beneath the stove, and yanked out a silver pot in which he could examine his reflection in. Realizing how much of his hair had been hacked off, Charlie frowned, and rubbed the crown of his head ruefully.

Mrs. Weasley focused on Bill, and indicated with a sharp jab of her finger the chair Charlie had just emptied. "Your turn."

"That's what you think." Bill took a step backward, colliding with the counter behind him.

"That's what I know. Sit down in the chair, young man."

"No." Bill's head shook to the left and right in defiance.

"Do as you're told," snarled his mum.

"No."

"Yes."

"I said no, Mum."

"And I said yes, William!" Molly's arms folded across her massive, heaving chess.

"Mum, please, I don't want to." Bill hated the slightly beseeching quality that had intruded upon his voice.

"I didn't ask you if you wanted to have your haircut," Mrs. Weasley reminded him cantankerously, "I ordered you to sit down so I could chop it off."

"Why?" Bill's arms crossed over each other, as well.

"Because I said so, that's why." Mrs. Weasley's eyes were lethal slits, and, in the fraction of his brain not fixated on their raging debate, Bill noticed that Percy was watching the argument with wide eyes over his tome, and Charlie's face was anxious as its attention shifted from his mother to his brother and back again.

"That's not a reason," he insisted stubbornly.

"What?" Apparently, his mum was so appalled by this statement that she could do no more than choke out a simple question.

Deciding that this remark might have been a tad harsh, he backpedaled, "Why can't I keep my hair the way it is, Mum? After all, it is _my_ hair, not yours, and, therefore, I should be able to choose how I want to wear it."

"Percy explained that quite nicely, if you ask me," she retorted.

"Yeah, we definitely should take advice on how to make oneself respected and listened to from the one guy in the common room who is never obeyed." He couldn't prevent the irony from invading his tone, he just couldn't. When he saw Percy blush, he felt slightly vindicated. "How about we let the prisoners run Azkaban and the patients operate St. Mungo's, as well? That's about as logical!"

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, young man!" Mrs. Weasley raised her wand, as if she were about to duel with him. "Sit down in that chair now, this discussion is over!"

Before he was even conscious of what he was doing, Bill had his wand out of his pocket, where he always stored it, and out in front of him, in a combat position that mirrored hers. Luckily, however, they never discovered whether or not they would actually have performed magic against each other, for at that moment, Mr. Weasley, accompanied by the twins, Ron, and Ginny, entered the kitchen, tugging in a large evergreen, and singing "Joy to the World." When he spotted the drawn wands of his wife and eldest son, Mr. Weasley broke off mid-lyric, and frowned. "What's all this commotion about?"

"Go ask the Diggorys or the Lovegoods, Dad," muttered Bill, his wand still out, because his mother's was still aloft, "because I'm pretty sure they heard everything, unless they've all suddenly gone deaf, or the Lovegoods have worked some lunatic spell on themselves again."

"Your son is impossible, completely impossible!" Molly exploded simultaneously. "He refuses to let me cut his hair."

"Of course he won't let you cut his hair," stated Ginny in her bundle of winter clothing from the doorway, and her oldest brother grinned at her, touched by her stalwartness. "It looks awesome the way it is."

"Yes, it is amazing," echoed Ron, who was standing beside his sister in the threshold. He shot Bill the double-thumbs-up. "Cool."

Even Fred and George stepped in with their support. "His hair looks as good as Bill's ever will, Mum."

"Thanks, Ginny, Ron, Fred, and George." Bill nodded at each of them in turn.

On the other hand, Mrs. Weasley's reaction contrasted glaringly with that of her son's, for she glowered at the four speakers. "Be quiet, all of you. When I require your opinion, I shall go to the immense bother of asking for it." Her eyes sought out Bill again. "Now will you cooperate, and set you little siblings a good example?"

"No, I like my hair the way it is, so it's staying exactly how it is until I decide otherwise," Bill replied firmly. "They're more than welcome to copy my awesome sense of style, though, Mum."

"You know perfectly well that is the very thing I don't want your siblings to emulate!" his mother roared, looking as if she wanted nothing more than to hang him from the nearest tree, or, better yet, strangle him on the spot.

At this point, her spouse decided to step in before wands were actually employed. Stepping between his wife and oldest child, he shoved their wands down, which caused both beings to glare at him, before asking his wife, "May I handle this, Molly dear?"

"Very well, if you really think you can do a better job," she blustered, stomping off toward the stove to finish preparing a chicken pie for supper.

Not sure if such an alteration would work to his advantage or not, Bill eyed his father like a wary animal. To his bewilderment, Mr. Weasley waved his wand at the tree, which soared into the living room, and said, "Come with me, please, Bill."

"Why?" Bill asked, placing his hands on his hips.

"Because you just volunteered to assist me in erecting and putting the strings of baubles on the Christmas tree," his father responded dryly, as they heard the evergreen land in the next room over.

"I didn't do any such thing, Dad," he protested, because he was not in the mood for shoving a cursed tree into a stand, and then stringing baubles around it, managing to tangle anyone and anything in the vicinity in the process. It never had gotten him into the Christmas spirit, and he was quite sure that he was entering the Christmas tree ordeal with the wrong attitude.

"Well, I nominated you, and that amounts to the same thing," replied Mr. Weasley, indicating the door, and, sighing, Bill trailed after him. In silence, they walked over to the corner where the Christmas tree was always placed, and, while his dad pushed the tree into its holder, Bill made sure it remained relatively stationary. Neither of them had any breath to speak while they erected the tree, and it wasn't until they were waving their wands to decorate the tree with strings of glittering baubles did Mr. Weasley say anything.

"So, would you care to explain the charming scene in the kitchen?" he inquired.

"Mum summed it up quite nicely when she said that I refused to let her cut my hair," grumbled Bill. "And I still don't think I did anything wrong, because it's my hair, after all, and I should be allowed to wear it as I want. She's just being a control freak again, Dad."

"That's why you had your wand out? You were going to attack your mother for that?"

"Only if she attacked me first," scowled Bill.

"Something about that scenario doesn't seem at all irrational to you?" Mr. Weasley's eyebrows arched.

"Excuse me, I was less irrational than she was, because, at least I wasn't the one trying to force someone to have their hair cut by me at the point of a wand," snapped Bill, glaring at his father, as his baubles almost strangled the tree in his temper. Cursing, he corrected this with a jerk of his wand.

"Don't talk to me like that, William," his dad answered sternly. "I was willing to side with you, at least up until now."

"If you'll forgive my saying so, you've a funny way of showing your sympathies." Fed up with decorating the blasted evergreen, Bill threw his wand on the ground. "Anyone watching would conclude that your heart was with her. Great cover job, Dad. Perhaps you could consider a career as a spy."

"Let's not argue, Bill," sighed Mr. Weasley, causing his companion to narrow his eyes suspiciously. "We'll call a truce and negotiate, shall we?"

"Alright," Bill agreed after a moment's contemplation, his manner still cautious. "Terms?"

"You may keep you hair at whatever length you desire, as long as you conduct yourself as you always have at school. If you don't, you're getting a haircut."

"What does hair have to do with my behavior?" Bill's eyebrows rose.

"Those are the terms, take them or leave them. Take them, you can keep your hair as it is, leave them, and your mum can give you a haircut when we're done decorating the tree."

"I'll take them," Bill muttered, "but I still think that it's not fair, because hair style has nothing to do with behavior."

"But people think it does," countered Mr. Weasley.

"It's the truth that matters, Dad, not what people think, isn't it, though?" Bill's lips quirked upward.

"Are you planning on blowing up the school or something? Is that why you're putting up such a fight?" laughed Mr. Weasley.

"No, but principle matters," Bill pretended to pout.

"Up to a point, but there is a point where resisting on principle becomes sheer folly, and is not worth the consequences." Mr. Weasley clapped his son on the shoulder. "Let's go find that angel in the attic where we keep all the rubbish we'd throw into a bin if we didn't have one, shall we?"

"I don't see why we need to bother with that, when we've got one right here." Bill jabbed a finger at his chest, implying that the angel he referred to was himself.

"Do you really want to go on a tree?" pointed out a grinning Mr. Weasley.

"No," Bill smiled, and they set off upstairs to the attic, "but we might not have the angel anymore. I'll bet the ghoul has gnawed it to pieces by now."

"It will probably still have its wins, for the ghoul doesn't seem to care for them," replied Mr. Weasley wisely, as they ascended the Burrow stairwell, until they reached the attic. Indeed, when they found the angel amid the chaos in the attic, it was slightly chewed in most places, but was still reasonably recognizable as a cherub, and the wings of the seraph were entirely intact, because, apparently, the ghoul did not fancy the flavor of them much.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: Yes, of course, it all belongs to me, and I happen to be the President of the United States, as well. (If you believe the later statement, I will be very offended, as I harbor under the delusion that I have a slightly better grasp of the English language than the current President of the United States. At any rate, I know that a singular subject must have a singular verb, and a plural subject requires a plural verb.) Obviously, all things Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling and any one else like Warner Bros. that has bought the property, and all that lawyer rubbish, and Bush is actually the President of the United States.

Reviews: If you have an opinion, and you know it review… if you have an opinion, and you know it review. If you have an opinion, and you know it, then your review will surely show it. If you have an opinion, and you know it review!

Author's Note: This is my take on why Charlie did not pursue a professional career in Quidditch. Hope you like it.

Charlie's Career

It was a crisp spring day like any other in early April, the first Saturday of the month. However, it was unlike any other, because it happened to be the morning of a Quidditch match, Gryffindor's second of the season: Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor. For this reason, the entire student body of Hogwarts was sitting in the stands, eyes riveted upon the fourteen players soaring about the Quidditch pitch. As Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were neck and neck with fifty points each half an hour into the game, all the Ravenclaws, decked out in blue and bronze, and all the Gryffindors, attired in crimson and gold, were all perched on the edge of their seats, and Bill Weasley discovered that he was by no means an exception to this generalization.

In fact, Bill suspected that he was even more anxious than the rest of his House members, because he was eager to see Charlie lead his team to a decent victory. After all, in November's match against Hufflepuff, Charlie and his teammates had triumphed, although it had been a narrow margin of victory. Oliver Wood, who had replaced Angela Leighton, who had graduated last year along with Hooper, as Keeper, and while Lisa Nessi and Melissa Albright were doing as well as they ever were in their sixth year, the new Chaser, Skinner, had fumbled several basic passes, and missed numerous opportunities to score. This meant that an hour into the match against Hufflepuff, the score had been one hundred to fifty, with Hufflepuff ahead. In the end, it had only been Charlie's keen eyesight and lightning reflexes that had saved Gryffindor from a humiliating defeat, as he was able to catch the Golden Snitch at that point, ensuring that his House emerged victorious by the unsatisfactory margin of fifty points. With "victories" like that, Gryffindor would not win the Cup. And, unfortunately, it appeared to be occurring again in the match against Ravenclaw.

Oh, no. Bill was transported back to the present with a groan, for a Ravenclaw Chaser had just scored. A scant two minutes later, the Quaffle slipped by Wood yet again…and, barely a moment later, another goal had been scored by a Ravenclaw. Great, Charlie really needed to catch the Snitch, or Gryffindor might very well lose this game spectacularly. Ah, well, if you couldn't be the best among the winners, you may as well be the best among the losers, because, then at least you were champion at something.

Apparently, Charlie had also determined that is was time for him to catch the Snitch, before Ravenclaw could snatch a victory up in its claws, and he soared like an eagle off to the Ravenclaw end of the pitch. Noting the other boy's motion, the Ravenclaw Seeker accelerated after him, trying to arrive at the Snitch before his opponent did. However, Charlie swept into one of the incredible dives he was renowned throughout the school for, and closed his fist firmly about a struggling, whizzing splotch of gold that few in the stadium could make out. Raising his hand to the crowd to prove he had been successful in his endeavor, Charlie landed nimbly on the ground. Within seconds, the rest of the team flew to the ground, as well, and created a huddle at their end of the pitch, no doubt discussing the outcome of the game.

Even from his location in the stands, Bill could recognize that his closest sibling was far from delighted with the results of the match, because, point-wise, Gryffindor was lagging behind Slytherin, the current favorite for the Quidditch Cup, and nothing was worse than being defeated by Slytherin. None of the rest of the Gryffindor team seemed thrilled either, even though they had just won another game. Deciding that his brother needed to be cheered up, Bill dragged Chris and Mike down the steps, onto the playing field, and over to Charlie and his teammates. As they approached, they distinctly heard a dejected Wood despairing loudly to Charlie, "Gosh, Charlie, I'm so sorry, truly I am! It's all my fault that we couldn't get a decent lead, because I keep bumbling saves, and that's why you had to end it so soon by catching the Snitch. Worse still, it was the same last time. Is suck so badly that suck doesn't even begin to cover it."

"At least you aren't as pathetic as I am," Skinner mumbled, burying his head in his palms. "I can't get this Quaffle through the blasted hoops, and I keep messing up simple passes. Must be a torture worse than the Cruciatus Curse, watching me attempt to play Quidditch, unless, of course, you happen to be a Slytherin, in which case, it's probably hilarious."

"Shut up, both of you," Charlie ordered firmly as Bill, Chris, and Mike joined the group, and he nodded shortly at the newcomers. "Neither of you are pathetic, and it's only when you think that way that you become painful to watch. Sure, there's room for improvement in both your techniques, but I expected as much, for I would have been an idiot not to. Don't forget that you guys have never played Quidditch like this before, and, Oliver, you're only a second-year, after all. Don't be too hard on yourselves, mates, as it's not constructive."

"You were a second-year when you started as Seeker," insisted Wood, "and you were anything but awful. You won Gryffindor the Cup in the very first match you played in, Percy told me. Geez, without you we would be terrible, simply terrible."

Charlie looked uncomfortable, clearly as incapable of explaining his prowess as a person trying to prove that it was raining while buckets of water poured upon him from the heavens. Taking pity upon him, Bill cut in, "Charlie was wicked, but he doesn't deserve all the credit, Oliver. He was part of a team, you know, and everyone on the team contributed to the victory."

"Exactly," Charlie smiled at Bill, thanking him for the rescue. "A team works together. We merge with each other's strengths and cover each other's weaknesses. Without Hooper, Nessi, and Albright scoring, Leighton protecting the hoops, and Carver and Denison bashing the Slytheirns with Bludgers, I would not have secured the victory by catching the Snitch without them."

At that moment, a pair of wizards in black robes approached them, strutting. Completely ignoring the rest of the teenagers in the knot of pupils, the taller of the two gentlemen focused upon Charlie, and demanded, "You're Charlie Weasley, huh? Captain of the Gryffindor team?"

"Yes, that's right." Totally nonplussed, Charlie nodded, all eyes, including Bill's fixated upon him.

"How would you like to join the English National Quidditch team?" the wizard continued without waiting for Charlie's response, an action which Bill personally could not condone.

"What?" Charlie sounded as if he had just been whacked around the head with a one hundred pound weight.

"All brawn and no brain, huh?" the wizard smirked. When Charlie scowled at him, the man laughed and slung a lazy arm about the lad's shoulders, striving, Bill surmised, to cultivate a paternal air. "Don't worry. We don't put a lot of emphasis on scholastic achievement at the English National Quiddtich team, because, after a couple of Bludgers bang into your head, there's nothing left in it, anyhow, so don't stress yourself over O.W.L's and N.E.W.T's, and all that codswallop. In fact―" The man rummaged about in his pocket for a moment before he withdrew a business card, which he shoved into Charlie's hand― "if you get sick of this place, here's my contact information, so you can just owl me, and we'll have you practicing with the rest of the team in no time at all. Understand?"

"Yes, thank you very much." Despite his words, to Bill's attuned ears, Charlie did not sound particularly grateful. "I'll be certain to keep that in mind, sir."

"Excellent, excellent. Just do me one favor, alright, Charlie my boy? Don't tell Minerva McGonagall that I dropped you some hints that might cause you to, um, leave school earlier than perhaps you would otherwise have done." Winking conspiratorially at the addressed, a phony gesture that made the blood in Bill's veins boil, the wizard added cheerily, "Not that she should lose her temper too much, because, after all, it was she that wrote to inform us that we might have a prospect in you, and we certainly do, lad, we certainly do."

Charlie's hazelnut eyes contracted. "McGonagall requested your presence here, sir?"

"Yes, of course. Didn't she tell you?" The man's tone was languid.

"No."

"Probably didn't want to make you nervous, my boy. If you were nervous, you might mess up, and then you wouldn't have shown us that awesome catch, and where would you be?" Suddenly, the wizard's manner became brusque. "Well, think about what I have said, Charlie. As I'm sure you're aware, there's a considerable amount of Galleons to be made in this industry, so why wait? Contact me when you leave school, whenever that is." Another covert wink, and then the wizard and his silent companion marched off the field without a backward glance.

"Wow, you've been offered a position on the National team!" exclaimed Oliver, blazing eyes wide.

"Yeah," Skinner echoed weakly.

Charlie ignored them as he focused his attention on his brother, eyes snapping with wrath, his chin stuck out defiantly. "I'm not all brawn and no brains, like that man claimed."

"I know," Bill reassured him, utterly earnest.

"I'm not joining that team, no matter what, Bill. The way he treated me just grated on my every nerve. It was as if I was mentally slow, or something, merely because I happen to be good at Quidditch," complained Charlie. "And that false friendliness― it reminded me of how you would treat a dim-witted puppy, not a person. All I know is that I'm not playing for anyone who treats me like that. Even if I were stupid and just brawn, I deserve some respect, you know what I mean."

"Of course you do," Bill soothed. "Nobody is going to force you to play on the international level if you don't want to, Char. Come on, let's get back to the castle. You and your team need to shower, that's for certain."

"Tell me about it," grumbled Chris, holding his nose, "you stink."

"Yeah, Tonks wouldn't want you smelling like this," Mike teased, and Charlie glowered at both of them, although he did set off to toward Hogwarts with his peers.

As they trudged up the now deserted pathway to the school, Charlie mumbled to his brother, "I can't believe McGonagall would intentionally put me through that ordeal."

"I'm sure that she thought she was doing you a favor by getting you into contact with beings who might be interested in having you play for them," Bill suggested. "She's strict and overly critical, but she's not evil, after all."

"Hey, Bill!" Hearing his named hollered in the middle of a teaming corridor, Bill drifted through the bustling crowd over to the stone wall, where he waited for the shouter to catch up with him. Within seconds, Charlie had charged over to him, all energy as always. "Where are you off to, now?" As he made this inquiry, he and his companion began to walk down the corridor as one unit, surging along to the Great Hall with everybody else.

"Dinner, like everyone else, witless. Try not to ask stupid questions, please."

"It's hard not to ask stupid questions when you're around such a brainless person, for to do otherwise might be constituted as impolite," Charlie retorted, his smile taking the insult away from the remark. "I'm going to supper, too. Want to eat together?"

"Chris, Mike, Steph, Jennifer, and Heather expect me to join them, I reckon, for I just decided to drop off a book at the library after Ancient Runes. You're welcome to sup with us, however," replied Bill as they descended a staircase, which, unfortunately, started to relocate itself the instant they had set foot upon it. Cursing along with all those who had been on the stairs with them when it commenced its movements, the two Weasleys, like everyone else, lurched forward, and then grasped the nearest banister to prevent themselves from toppling over. When he had regained his balance, the elder Weasley offered, "The invitation is extended to Dan and Matt, as well."

Charlie hesitated, as the steps reattached themselves, and those on the staircase hurried down it, before it could move once more. "Do you think that we could eat alone tonight? I want to talk to you."

"Well, I didn't _promise_ my friends I would dine with them, although it is rather like an unwritten rule, or at the very least a custom that ought to be followed," Bill mused. Then he caught sight of his comrade's expression, and he relented. "Oh, alright, we'll have some brother bonding time, even though I expect that tomorrow our dear friends will mock us both for supping with our girlfriends without them."

"Better than our boyfriends," mumbled Charlie to his sibling's amusement as they entered the Great Hall, and searched for two seats across from each other at the Gryffindor table.

"So what's troubling you, Charlie?" asked Bill, plopping onto a bench, loading steak and a baked potato on his golden platter, and filling his goblet with pumpkin juice.

"Who said anything's bothering me?" Charlie returned haughtily, piling two potatoes and what might have been a whole cow on his dish.

"Give me credit for intelligence where credit is due. I know that you only want to talk to me alone if something is eating at you."

"Nothing's really wrong, exactly. I've just returned from Career Advice," faltered Charlie.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine, I suppose." Charlie's shoulders rose and fell with a shrug. "That is to say, it began well enough. When I entered, McGonagall immediately began yammering on about how their really wasn't that much to discuss, because obviously my career was almost fully fleshed out for me. That is, given my skill on the Quidditch court, it was clear that I would pursue a career in the sport, and since I have already been approached with offers from the English National team, there was little more advice she could provide me with, except to keep in touch with the managers of the team and all that. Of course, she advocated that I remain in school, and work hard to attain the O.W.L's and N.E.W.T's necessary to have a job elsewhere, should the need arise, because, after all, accidents can occur on the pitch, and I wouldn't want to be without a means to support myself."

"Sounds like decent advice to me," Bill commented after swallowing a particularly chewy bite of steak. "I confess that I don't comprehend what's plaguing you."

"That's because I haven't finished yet, half-wit," answered Charlie through a mouthful of potatoes. "At that point, I had the requisite courage and stupidity to interrupt our charming Head of House―"

"You interrupted McGonagall?" repeated his brother, mouth agog at this development. "Did Carver or Denison accidentally knock your precious few brains out during last practice, or something?"

"No, although I did topple off my broomstick," joked Charlie, shoveling still more food into his body. Finishing with the mountains of victuals on his saucer, he dumped a mound of turnips onto his plate before proffering the turnips to his sibling. "Turnips?"

Bill wrinkled his nose at him. "Don't pretend to be dumber than you are. You are aware that I hate turnips."

"And I still don't understand why," Charlie responded, gobbling down his serving of turnips.

"Because they're disgusting― they've got a terrible taste and a revolting texture. Now, don't try to change the subject on me. Why in the name of Merlin would you interrupt McGonagall?"

"It was my career advice session, and I wanted to talk about my career."

"You were, Charlie."

"No, she thought we were, but we weren't." Charlie inhaled deeply, as if he were about to dive head first into a frozen lake, stark naked. "I― I've decided I don't want to play Quidditch for the English National team, or anyone else for that matter."

"What?" Bill stared at the other as though he had just established that slugs were human, too, and, therefore, deserved the same rights as everyone else.

"You heard me." A smirk graced Charlie's features. "That was McGonagall's reaction, as well."

"It's a perfectly rational and legitimate one, I'll have you know, Charles."

Scowling at the utilization of his full name, Charlie fired back in kind, "Shut up, William."

"Are you sure about this?" Bill inquired, brow furrowed in concern.

"Of course I am!" Charlie insisted, startling his comrade with his vehemence. "Did you see the way that man treated me?"

"Yes, and I don't approve of it, but, Char, I'm certain that not everybody at the National team will treat you with such disrespect." Bill's tone was gentle. "You shouldn't disregard it as a career choice just because of that. I mean, you love Quidditch, and you'll make loads of money and be very famous, if you join the English National team."

"I never really cared about being famous and being rich, that's always been more of your cup of tea than mine, Bill." Charlie's determined eyes sought out his brother's uncertain ones. "I've always just wanted to do something that I enjoyed with my life."

"Since when have you not liked Quidditch?" Bill's eyebrows arched.

Playfully, Charlie rapped his companion's head with his knuckles, causing the other lad to glare at him. "Do you have a terribly hollow feeling in your skull? I love Quidditch, and you're perfectly aware of that fact, but I'm passionate about magical creatures, too."

At this, Bill's face became a study in incredulity. "You're not seriously going to work with dragons, are you?"

"Yes." As he expressed as much, Charlie nodded grimly. "In Romania, and nothing you can say will change my mind about this, mate."

"Mum will be thrilled to hear of your career plans," laughed Bill, "especially since I'm going to have a dangerous job in Egypt. Between us and the dreadful duo, Mum's going to end up in an early grave."

"What are you going to do?" Interest entered the other boy's voice.

"I'm going to be a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts."

"Sounds neat." There was a brief pause before Charlie demanded, "You've broken it to Mum yet?"

"Merlin, no." Grinning wryly, Bill shook his head in negation. "I don't intend to do so until I'm about to leave, because then she won't be able to stop me from going, and, even then, I'm going to attempt to break the news to Dad first."

"Good technique," Charlie smiled as he raised his golden goblet in a toast.

"You may borrow it if you wish when the time comes for you to depart for Romania."

"You're too kind." Sarcasm was etched in Charlie's comment.

"I know." Bill intentionally ignored his sibling's tone, as he placed a large helping of pudding on his platter. Rolling his eyes, his brother helped himself to an even larger serving. On an impulse he added, "It's a deal, then?"

"What's a deal?" Charlie asked, although he most likely had inferred Bill's meaning.

"I'll keep your secret about working with dragons in Romania, and you'll keep your big mouth clamped shut about my plan to work in Egypt in a potentially lethal occupation."

"We've always kept each other's secrets, Bill. Why on earth should it be different now?"

"It shouldn't be. It's a deal, then." As he stated as much, Bill held out his hand.

"Deal." Charlie accepted the hand, and they grinned guiltily at one another, and then they both returned to their desserts at the same time.


	28. Chapter 28

The Last Day

Disclaimer: I don't harbor under the delusion that Harry Potter belongs to me, when, in fact it belongs to a brilliant author whom you might have heard of who goes by the name J.K. Rowling. Anyway, if you believe Harry Potter is mine, it's your source-monitoring error, not mine.

Author's Note: This will be the last chapter I write about Bill's years at Hogwarts, sadly, but then we will move onto his experiences in Egypt, which, hopefully, will be exciting to the writer and her audience. Sorry if it's a little cheesy, but hopefully the next chapter will be better if this one is lame.(Sneak preview of next chappie: Bill tells parents about his career plan!)

Reviews: Are great, especially right now, because my dad just got laid off, so any positive comments really can brighten my day. (Do it in the spirit of Christmas.)

Bill Weasley could not accept that his seven years at Hogwarts were at an end. He could not possibly have whiled away the better part of seven years in this castle, for, in hindsight, it felt like he had only been at the place for about a week. Surely, it had only been a week ago that he had kissed his family farewell, and boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time, where he had chattered with Chris and Mike for the entirety of the journey, ensuring that they became the best of friends forever. There was no way that it could have been more than seven days in the past that he had plopped down on the stool, and the Sorting Hat had declared him a Gryffindor. Similarly, it must have been only six days ago that he had brought his lips to Jennifer's for the first time, and it had not been that long since his father had caught them kissing, or he had agonized over what courses he would take in his third year. And it could only have been days ago that he had showed Charlie around the school, and it certainly didn't seem like that long ago since he and his friends had visited Hogsmeade for the first time. After all, he could remember with astonishing clarity and tangibility his first sip of butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, the awe he had felt as he gazed, eyes peeled, at the millions of varieties of candy available at Honeydukes, and the terror he had felt when he fled from the Shrieking Shack…

Oh, he just couldn't accept that his years as a schoolboy were over. Yet they undeniably were, for he had attained the high-level N.E.W.T. scores necessary to pursue his dream of becoming a Gringotts Curse-Breaker. On the same token, his fellow Gryffindor seventh-years, Chris, Mike, Heather, Steph, and Jennifer, had all achieved the required number of N.E.W.T.'s to enter the fields they desired to. Still, the fact that they would be moving onto their bright futures in their respective chosen careers did not cheer Bill and his yearmates very much, because, as Bill was recognizing in a rather heart-wrenching fashion, in life there were stages that you went through that, oftentimes, you weren't even aware you were crossing through, until you were finished with the entire phase, and you could no longer revisit it, except in memory.

Somehow, although they all realized that they were old enough and ready to leave school and make a living on their own, without their parents hovering over their shoulders, they were not emotionally prepared to leave school and enter the work force, not just yet, anyhow. Oddly, after years of itching to become independent, Bill was reluctant to emerge from the protection and order the confines of Hogwarts provided. It was not fear of the future, exactly, that wished to bind him to the grounds of the castle forever, Bill mused, but rather a loyalty to the past, a loving devotion to the friendships he had wrought in his time at Hogwarts.

Apparently, Mike, Chris, Heather, Jennifer, and Steph felt the same way, which was why the six of them were huddled together right before the commencement of the end of term feast, staring each other with intense eyes that were supposed to absorb every last freckle on everyone's face, by a window in the now deserted common room, unable to speak pass the frogs in their throats, and discovering that they had no words to express the emotions that were choking them if they had been able to do so.

Finally, Heather broke the silence by shoving photo albums bound in dragon hide to each of her five companions, mumbling, "I've been slaving over them in secret since the start of our― our last year here. I made each of you guys one, and I created one for myself, too. Hope you like them, that's all I can say."

"Of course we like them, Heather! They're absolutely lovely!" Jennifer and Steph hugged their best mate tightly, as though afraid that she would disintegrate if they did not squeeze her tightly enough.

"You've outdone yourself again, Heather, my love," praised Bill, as he kissed her cheek. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again, you've a magnificent sense of style, and you don't need to travel to New York City to succeed in the wizarding apparel industry, for I reckon that if you set up shop in Diagon Alley, you'll have Madam Malkin out of business in no time."

"Thanks, but I know better than to believe you, because you're nothing more than a flatterer." Heather wrapped her arms about him for a moment, and he returned the gesture. "Besides, I've already told you, I have an aunt who lives in the suburbs of New York, and she says New York is a great place for fashion designers, and I want to go out and see the world, just as you do, Bill. Isn't that why you're going to Egypt?"

"Partly," Bill replied seriously as they pulled away from each other, tears shining in their eyes now, "but I shan't pretend I'm not intrigued by the treasure involved."

"I'm sure you'll be an excellent Curse-Breaker, Bill." A single tear trickled out of Heather's eye and down her cheek as she asserted as much.

"And you'll be the greatest fashion designer this world has ever known, and the best it will ever know." Flushing, Bill realized his voice was cracking, and he spun away from her to conceal the depth of his emotions, instead throwing his arms around Jennifer, and then Steph, who both clutched him as if they were determined to never let him go, although they did in the end. "You two will make the most wonderful Healers ever to grace the halls of St. Mungo's, I swear," he added to the two girls, who promised that he would have nothing but fair fortune as a Curse-Breaker.

"Best of luck, William Weasley," muttered Mike, holding out his hand as soon as Bill had finished exchanging these assurances with Jennifer and Stephanie. "Have fun exploring the tombs."

"Enjoy writing your hand off for the Daily Prophet, Micheal O'Connor." Accepting the proffered hand, Bill shook hands with his friend rather longer than custom required, although Mike did not seem to mind in the slightest.

When he was done shaking hands with Mike, Bill turned to Chris. "Have fun at the Ministry, even though I reckon you're crazy to want a career there."

"Well, I think that you're mental to want to fiddle around with terrible curses laid upon hidden tombs of pharaohs, and I suspect many more people would side with me than would take your part," retorted Chris. They were bantering now, trying to displace the tension coiled like springs inside them.

"Let's not argue on our last day together," cut in Jennifer briskly. "We must promise, everyone one of us, that we will remain friends forever, no matter what happens."

"I promise," six voices chirped in unison, as six pairs of hands piled up on each other for a minute before untangling themselves again.

"If we're to remain friends forever, we'll need to keep in touch," Steph reasoned, her tone crisp. "That means we must exchange addresses and any contact information we can." After stating as much, she hastened over to the nearest spindly table, dug around in the quill holder for a handful of seconds before she unearthed six rather bedraggled quill, snatched up a roll of parchment, and pranced back over to her peers. "I've got us each a quill and one roll of parchment for all of us. Everybody, break off a piece, and we'll pass them around and scribble all our contact information upon them."

Grinning, the six of them launched themselves at the parchment, and, after a brief scuffle, each emerged from the fray with a piece of parchment in hand. Then they all snatched a quill, and, after settling themselves upon the floor, copied down their contact information on the parchment in their hands. For a few seconds, the only sound in the common room except for the crackling fire was the sound of their quills scratching away, but then Heather muttered, "Heavens above, I'm overly sensitive today. Even the sounds of quills tracing over parchment is bringing tears to my eyes."

"May I ask why?" Chris sounded bewildered as they all passed their parchments to the right, in a hoop, in a circle that, like their friendship, would never end.

"It has no significance in itself, a scratching quill, but yet it has every significance." Heather shrugged. "It's just that so many stupid, little, everyday memories are attached to the sound of quills dancing across parchment. There were all the notes we took in class, everyone's quill moving as one unit—"

"There were all those notes we passed in class, our quills moving tentatively across the page, afraid the professor would discover our covert activities," added Jennifer, smiling melancholically.

"All those games of hangman." Beaming, Bill winked at Chris and Mike, who smirked.

"And there were exams, everyone's quill hurrying along as their brains exploded with the exertion of attempting to recollect just one more fact to incorporate into their response," Mike commented. "School wasn't all fun and games."

"Certainly it wasn't, sometimes the quill scratched, because you were writing lines in detention," agreed Chris. "Anyone who thinks that's a laugh can see Jennifer and Steph in the lunatic ward at St. Mungo's."

"Of course school wasn't always awesome." Waving her hand airily, Heather dismissed these contentions. "But now those days are over, and they're never, ever coming back. Don't you miss them at all? Think about it, nevermore will you copy down notes while giggling with a friend at a professor's quirky mannerisms. Nevermore will you play hangman or pass notes in a lesson, the fun of doing so created in part by the excitement of breaking a rule, and the inkling of apprehension when it entered your mind that you might get caught. Nevermore will you take an exam, or cram for one with a friend. Nevermore will you scribble out a line in detention, sacred to meet a friend's eye because you might both burst out laughing. A thousand more nevermores. Won't you miss it, Chris?"

"I guess, when you put it that way, I might." Chris shrugged. "But we're growing up, and we've a fine future ahead of us all. We've got the whole world to explore now, not just the grounds of Hogwarts, and sometimes Hogsmeade."

Steph nodded. "Chris and Heather are both right. We've all got brilliant careers before us, and we shouldn't regret moving onto them, although, as Heather says, we ought to understand that our childhood is mostly over, and that is sad, because, I do wonder where the heck the time went. Still, not everything will change..."

"We'll remain friends forever," completed Jennifer, "and the quill, Heather, has not yet ceased its scratching, for we shall continue to correspond with each other, and, even if we do sometimes get busy and neglect to write, we will always think of each other again, and then our quill will resume its scratching as we pen a letter."

"That is, if we don't die of starvation," teased Bill. "Come on, let's go down to the end of term feast. There's probably a bit of dessert left."

"Bet there is," Chris affirmed, "and we can call on seventh-year privilege to make certain we get the best pudding."

"I'm Head Boy," Bill reminded him as the six of them departed the common room for one of the last times in their lives, "and I can hardly allow you to bully underclassmen in front of me, Christopher Brown."

"I forgot you were Head Boy," smirked Chris as they headed down several corridors and a flight of stairs. "Well, that makes it all the easier, doesn't it? Now all you have to do is tell everyone that they've got to give you and your companions the best food, or you'll put them all in detention."

"Yeah, because I wouldn't be abusing my authority at all, if I did that," Bill snorted.

"Yeah, and like it's not the end of the year," laughed Mike. "When on earth would they serve that detention, Chris?"

"Don't ask me, Mike, for I'm not Head Boy. I'm not the one walking around in that horrible badge."

"You're just jealous." Bill stuck up his nose as they arrived in the Great Hall, and they wandered over to the Gryffindor table, where there was still plenty of pudding for them to stuff themselves with.


	29. Chapter 29

Breaking the News

Disclaimer: It's all J.K. Rowling's as the more astute readers have undoubtedly concluded by this point.

Reviews: Are awesome, so if you have the time, brighten my day by dropping me a line or two.

Author's Note: I sincerely hoped this turned out halfway decent. (The problem with ideas that have been in your head for awhile is that they never turn out as good as you hope, so if nobody reviews, I'll assume it was lame, and I'll try to fix it.)

As for the Gobbledegook, it is based entirely on Dutch from an online translator, so if it's wrong, just tell me and I will fix it, because I am aware that online translators make context and verb conjugation errors, as my A.P. Spanish teacher would be more than happy to remind me. (The same holds true for the Portuguese I used in an earlier chapter, although I am reasonably more confident with that translation, only because Spanish and Portuguese closely resemble each other, and any French I employ in the future.)

"So, now that your school days are done, and your application has been accepted, we expect you to begin working for us without delay," the swarthy goblin Gornuck pronounced in his deep growl as Bill entered the office the owl sent to him two mornings ago had commanded him to report to at this hour, eleven in the morning on July the first. Gornuck's refusal to utilize any standard greeting implied that goblins did not set much in store by what humans would classify as good manners, which provided Bill with his first instruction on the peculiar, inscrutable goblin customs. Without pausing to allow for a response or to offer the human before him a seat, Gornuck went on, "Therefore, you will come here two days hence at ten in the morning, ready to depart for our branch in Cairo. Any questions?"

"Er, no, not that I know of." Bill was still rather wrong-footed by the other's brusqueness. "You've been perfectly explicit, thank you."

For the first time since he had initialized the exchange, Gornuck emitted what might have passed muster as a grin, although, to Bill, it resembled more of a leer of the sort a cat would wear prior to pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse. "Surprised, huh? Not ready to begin a dangerous career, after all, is that it?"

"I admit that I thought you might wish to provide more training for green recruits, such as myself. After all, I should have thought that treasure-hunting expeditions are noticeably more successful and profitable when the treasure-hunters actually return with the plunder." Although he hardly constituted himself as an expert in goblin psychology, Bill knew enough to recognize that one of the few arguments that held sway with the species was that of gold and other riches.

"You imagine correctly, which is why we provide on the ground training for you and all other new Curse-Breakers. You will be paired with a Curse-Breaker for a year, during which time, he or she will show you the ropes. We leave the actual decision as to who will instruct you up to the head of our branch in Cairo, or whoever he deems it appropriate to delegate the task to. Well, if you've no questions, get along to work with you. Het harde werk brengt winst en goud. That is, in English, hard work brings profit and gold. Aan het werk. To work. " This last phrase seemed to serve the purpose of a farewell.

As Gornuck returned his focus to his ledger, which was loaded with numbers that represented money and riches stored in Gringotts, Bill's lips quirked upward in amusement. However, his spirits dampened when he realized that he would have to break it to his mother just what his mystery-shrouded career was… Still, it was a Saturday morning, so he could manage to inform his dad, not his mum first if he played his cards right.

Unfortuantely, the second Bill entered the door of the Burrow, such a possibility was erased forever. "Where were you, Bill?" Molly snapped as she cleaned a few remaining breakfast dishes in the sink, waving her wand as she stood over them, ensuring that every last smear of grease disappeared.

From their separate kitchen corners in which they were serving time-out for whatever crime they had just perpetrated, Fred and George snickered, delighted to discover that, at the moment, they were not the objects on which her ire and hostility were affixed.

"Diagon Alley." Shrugging, Bill quickly concluded that telling unilluminating half-truths was the most effective route out of his current predicament. "Not that it's any of your business, seeing as I'm legally an adult, Mum."

"I take that to mean that you were at the Leaky Cauldron, drinking with your friends, then." A particularly resounding clatter of a breakfast pan in the sink conveyed Mrs. Weasley's displeasure at such a notion.

"Really, Mum, you're determined to believe the very worst of me, aren't you?" Bill responded, half-jesting, and half-wounded.

"Yeah, when Bill comes home late, Mum will think that he robbed a shop, or something," cut in Fred from his corner, and his eldest brother could not stifle his smirk.

"Or else that he committed homicide," George completed from his corner opposite his terror twin.

"Be quiet while you're in time-out," snarled their mother in a peevish voice that bore an uncanny resemblance to Percy's. "Since you spoke, I'll start from zero again, boys." After establishing as much, she whirled upon her eldest child. "As for you, I know that you've always been one who was willing to do whatever was popular, so I reckon that if your buddies told you it was cool to get wasted, you'd do it―"

"Please, Mum. Don't you realize how silly you sound? There's no alcohol stench on my breath, and I'm not weaving around like a drunkard. Besides, who in the world gets drunk by this hour in the morning?"

For a moment or so, Mrs. Weasley was silent, debating inwardly, chewing reflectively on her lower lip as she did so. "Well, if you weren't drinking with your friends, what on earth were you doing?"

"With all due respect, Mum, it's none of your affair. Remember, I'm an adult now." With that, Bill spun on his heel, and started to make his way over to the staircase, but his progress was halted when his mother shouted after him.

"You may be legally an adult now, but that doesn't mean that you can do anything you want, William! While you live under this roof, you are responsible and answerable to your father and me. Do I make myself clear?"

"Clearer than a piece of fine, expensive crystal," Bill reassured her placidly. "Of course, I think it fair to mention the fact that I may not be inhabiting this house much longer. In fact, two days from now, I won't be living with the rest of the Weasley clan. Therefore, I regret to inform you that this new ordinance won't be in effect for very long, unfortunately."

"What it this rubbish you're spewing, young man?" Mrs. Weasley's tone became shriller than ever as her hands flew to her hips.

"I'm afraid that it's not rubbish, it's the truth. Two days from now, I will depart for Cairo, Egypt, where I will serve as a Gringotts Curse-Breaker, Mum," Bill replied firmly, even though his heart was breaking in his chest. Although he was resolved to go to Egypt, regardless of what his parents said or did, he had took no pleasure in causing them agony, as he comprehended that his career choice would do. Yet he had no desire to make himself miserable, either, and, if they truly loved him, they would learn how to make peace with his decision, and learn how to let him go free, how to let him become independent.

"Oh, is this the mysterious career you selected with Minerva McGonagall's guidance?" A faint note of hysteria entered Molly's speech. "What a surprise! Well, I won't allow it, William Arthur Weasley, I won't―"

"Mum, listen to me, please. I love you, but please try to understand that this is not a matter of what you'll allow―" Bill got no further than this, for his mother interjected lividly.

"I think that you'll find it is!" she roared, her face a massive tomato.

"No, I think you'll find that I have right to pick my own career, and I've chosen to become a Gringotts Cure-Breaker, and they've accepted me, that's all there is to it," Bill argued, his voice still level. "You're making this a great deal more complicated than it is."

"Making this more complicated than it is, am I? In case, you've forgotten, you're headed into a strange land, intent on pursuing a life-threatening job!"

"I've grasped that, thanks, Mum." Bill couldn't keep the irony out of his words, he just couldn't. Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, he noted that the terror twins, tip-toeing, were retreating from the room.

Stumbling across the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley reached up to clasp his shoulders, something complicated by the fact that Bill towered over her, having inherited his father's height and build, not his mother's. "Oh, why, Bill, why? What's wrong with you, dear?"

"Nothing, Mum," Bill informed her, gently disengaging himself from her clutches.

"Don't give me that!" raged Molly, brown eyes storming in a mirror image of the chaos inside her. "Obviously, something is wrong with you when, after attaining top grades at school, and being a prefect and Head Boy―" Now a trace of pride appeared in the rant, although it quickly disappeared like the sun behind a gray cloud in a hurricane― "you decide to become a Cure-Breaker, instead of going into the Ministry, or something respectable!"

"Actually, the only reason I could become a Curse-Breaker is because I received such excellent marks, Mum, if you're interested in knowing," Bill educated her frostily, her shrieking finally having aggravated him enough to cause him to lose his own temper, which was never an auspicious sign, because once he began to lose control, all traces of sanity left him, which was why he usually made an effort to remain calm. "Goblins are pretty selective about who they hire outside of their species. They aren't too fond of us humans, to be blunt, just as we aren't very fond of them."

Before his mother could retort, footfalls sounded, moving down the steps, and, the next second, Arthur Weasley arrived in the kitchen, glancing inquiringly first at his spouse, then at his eldest offspring. "I heard shouting. May I intrude long enough to ascertain what the cause of such turmoil is?"

"Yes, of course you can, Arthur dear," answered Mrs. Weasley sounding almost normal. "Forgive me for not telling you earlier, as soon as Bill informed me, as it concerns you, too." Pointing her finger at her child in condemnation, she finished, her voice gaining volume again, "Your son is currently harboring under the delusion that he is going to travel to Egypt to become a Curse-Breaker!"

Before her husband could absorb this development thoroughly enough to react to it, Bill fired back, "No, Dad, your wife harbors under the delusion that she can stop me."

"Bill, why exactly do you want to do this?" Mr. Weasley asked, intervening before his wife could challenge such a declaration. "Just explain that to me, please. Calmly and rationally, if you don't mind."

"Because I enjoy History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, all of which are involved in this job," snapped Bill, completely flying off the handle at last. Honestly, his parents should be proud that he had been responsible, determined, and hard-working enough to set a goal and stick to it, through the grit and grime, until the end, but no, all they could was criticize. It was enough to drive any semi-sane being up the wall, or up two or three blasted walls, for that matter. "Also, because I've always wanted to travel, to see the rest of the bloody planet, to test my beliefs against those of others, to explore, to question everything I have ever known, to avoid becoming another square person in a world that's round, to stay clear of the Ministry, where you just grab a cursed number and stand in line, waiting for a chance, which never comes, to see how high you can fly. In essence, I don't want to be you, Dad. This job ensures that I won't."

Maybe that was harsher than he had intended to be, especially considering that he had announced as much to his mild-mannered father, who had not, technically, attacked him, yet the words rang with a horrible verity. They were the truth, as terrible as they sounded to his ears, and he had meant them, just in a more tender, affectionate way. Biting his lip, because he could not seem weak if he wanted to get his way, Bill pivoted and stomped up the stairwell.

"Don't do this, Bill!" his father hollered at his back.

"I'm leaving here, and I'm never returning," shouted Bill, not even glancing over his shoulder at the man he addressed. "After I pack, I'm going to Mike or Chris' house, until I leave for Cairo, and there's nothing you can do about it, either of you. Just try to stop me. I've read all about ancient Egyptian hexes."

"If you leave like this, William Arthur, don't ever bother to come back again!" Bill heard his mother scream this as he arrived outside the door of his and Charlie's bedroom.

"I won't, don't fret!" he screamed back, thrusting the door open. Upon entering, he discovered that the room was empty, which meant that Charlie was practicing Quidditch at the knoll. Furiously, Bill yanked his trunk out from beneath his bed, and commenced packing his clothes, folding each piece carefully prior to placing it gingerly in his trunk. Somehow, his wrath made him more precise in such an endeavor than was typical with him.

The door swung open behind him, and an alarmed Bill twisted about to see his dad outlined in the threshold. "You don't really want to leave like this, son," he observed in that rational manner that had always made Bill more ashamed of himself than any of him mum's scorching lectures had.

"How would you know that?" The young man kept his eyes riveted on his baggage to conceal the guilty flush stealing up his face, because he would not permit himself to display vulnerabilities of any kind at this crucial juncture.

"For one thing, you're packing like a Muggle, not like a wizard, which indicates that you are stalling." Mr. Weasley smiled as he plopped down on the hard wood floor alongside his son. "Admit it, Bill, you want someone to chase after you, and stop you from leaving. It's always been that way with you, for you've always wished to discover just how far you could go before you were forced to stop."

"Dad, I'm not testing you or Mum." Bill glared at his father, miffed that he would believe that this was just about pushing limits. "Furthermore, I'm not going to allow myself to be stopped by either of you, so don't waste your breath."

"You misunderstand me," Mr. Weasley remarked dryly. "I respect your right to travel to Egypt―"

"What?" exclaimed Bill, eyes protruding slightly. "I thought you were on Mum's side!"

"Well, you certainly didn't go to the tremendous bother of verifying such an assumption, did you?"

"No." Blushing to the roots of his vivid hair because he now felt completely unjustified in lashing out at his dad, Bill hesitated, and then demanded, "If you're on my side, Dad, why are you up here, attempting to prevent me from departing?"

"I'm not trying to prevent you from leaving, so much as striving to ensure that you don't leave in a huff."

"Hey, it's as much Mum's fault that it's ended up like this." Bill's arms folded over his chest.

"Bill, son, don't do this." Arthur wrapped an arm about his oldest child's shoulders. "I didn't come up here to argue with you, or alienate you further. Actually, I came up to do just the opposite, hoping to extract a promise from you that you'll keep in touch with us."

"I'd like to do that, Dad, really I would, but you heard Mum― she basically said that she wants nothing more to do with me. As such, I don't expect she would be interested in engaging in a correspondence with me, nor would she be thrilled about me writing to anyone in this family." More thoughtfully, he amended, "Although I might be able to exchange letters with Charlie, as he's at Hogwarts, out of her immediate control."

"Oh, Bill, you know that your mum did not mean what she said, not really. The only reason that she reacted so strongly regarding your career choice is because she loves you very much, and she doesn't want anything potentially lethal to happen to you. This same love prevents her from cutting herself off from you."

"I'll take your word for it, seeing as you've known her longer than I have."

"So you promise that you'll keep in touch with us with― what's your owl's name again?" Mr. Weasley's forehead knotted as he struggled to remember what his boy had called his owl.

"Nekhebet," Bill grinned at his father's struggle, "named for the ancient Egyptian goddess, and, yes, I swear I'll write to you lot with her."

Upon hearing what the young man had dubbed his owl, Mr. Weasley shook his head despairingly. "You and your Egyptian deities. If this is what you name your poor pet, I shudder to think what you will call my grandchildren."

"I'll copy your worthy example when naming my children, and use stereotypically English names like John, James, Peter, Mary, Thomas, and Jane," teased Bill.

"Your mum and I were not that lame," Mr. Weasley protested through a chortle.

Bill arched his eyebrows, and reminded his dad, "You named your sons William, Charles, Frederick, and George. There aren't many more traditional English names than those. Only Ginny and Percy have names that are in any way original."

"You could've done worse," retorted Mr. Weasley. "We could've named you Amon-Ra or something."

"That's actually the name of your first grandson, you know."

"Did I ever tell you that you're utterly impossible?" Bill's father shook his head in exasperation, even though he was beaming.

"Only everyday," Bill laughed. More seriously, he inquired, "So I can stay here until I depart for Cairo?"

"Unless you can think of some place you'd rather be, yes."

"Mum won't like it."

"She will once she's calmed down enough to regret saying everything bet good luck and good-bye." Mr. Weasley shrugged. "It's because you're the eldest that she reacts this way, you see, because no parent enjoys losing their child."

"If she reacts this way to my going to Egypt as a Curse-Breaker, her reaction to discovering that Charlie's going to work with dragons in Romania will go down forever in the Weasley family chronicles," muttered Bill, not intending for his father to him, and not meaning to voice his inner musings aloud. "As well as those of the Diggorys and the Lovegoods, who, no doubt, will hear every word."

"What is that?" Mr. Weasley demanded sharply. "What is this about Charlie working with dragons in Romania."

"My little joke, that's all, Dad," Bill lied instantly, straight-faced. "Don't you imagine that Charlie will pursue a career in international Quidditch?"

"Of course," Mr. Weasley replied as he exited, "he's already gotten offers, although I have yet to see him respond to the proposals of the English National team."

"Well, now that I've got a job, Mum can hound him about his future career, instead," observed Bill with a snicker as the door shut behind his father, despite the fact that he did feel sympathy for what his brother would have to endure in the next two years at the Burrow, especially when he broke the news about working with dragons in Romania. Of course, Bill also sincerely hoped that his father would have forgotten his innocent little joke by then, because he doubted that his parents would be enamored of him if they realized that he had kept that information secret.


	30. Chapter 30

Leaving Home

Disclaimer: Anything that seems like it belongs to Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling, a woman whom I have nothing but the utmost respect from, and would not try to steal from.

Author's Note: This will probably be my last update before Christmas, therefore I will give an all-purpose carol: "Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukah! Kwanzaa time is here! Season's greetings if your holiday doesn't appear here!" The Dutch (Gobbledegook) and French are based on online translations, so if there are mistakes, as always, tell me. I've put the English translations in parenthesis to help the readers, like me, who don't know French or Dutch.

Reviews: I appreciate any reviews I get, so, if you find the time during this busy season, please write one. As always, I will reply as soon as I can, and fix anything I can.

"I can't believe you're leaving for Egypt tomorrow," Charlie hissed at around midnight on Bill's last night in England. Bill, who had been tossing about anxiously since he had retired at ten, turned around to face the bulky frame of his brother in the twin bed opposite him.

"Neither can I," he admitted so softly that he wondered whether anything saved that darkness engulfed the two young men would be able to hear. "My last year at Hogwarts just flew by, as cliché as that sounds."

"Our whole childhood flew by," Charlie whispered back, suggesting that he had indeed heard his older sibling. "It seems like only yesterday that we were racing around on a toy broomstick―"

"And fighting over it," interjected Bill, grinning melancholically, because the memory was bittersweet. It made the deep love and affection he had for Charlie rise to the surface, filling him with warmth, while at the same time, it stung him like a scorpion's tail, because he recognized that he would never create another like it. He missed the innocence of his youth. Where had his summer gone?

"And fighting over it," Charlie conceded, and Bill could sense his brother's smile, even if he couldn't see it, "although I'll still put all the blame for the scuffles on you."

"How noble of you! I guess you haven't changed a bit since then, after all," teased Bill, and he was rewarded with Charlie's chortle. "Remember when we used to act out Dumbledore's duel with Grindelwald?"

"Of course I remember. You always made me be Grindelwald, you horrid prat."

"It's not my fault that you were always the more sadistic, making you a more apt choice for the part. Besides, it is a right of seniority, you idiot."

"I could give you a very graphic description of how you can employ your butt as a storage bin for your seniority rights, if you want."

"Don't waste your breath, Charlie, because tomorrow, you will become the oldest Weasley child in England," advised Bill, smirking into his pillowcase.

"True." Silence, as companionable as always, descended upon them, before Charlie murmured, "Maybe Percy will finally listen to me when I tell him to keep his thoughts in his blasted head where they belong, instead of infecting the rest of the population with them."

"Perhaps," shrugged Bill, "but if you value your life, then I wouldn't test the hypothesis around Mum."

"Obviously not." Even though he could not see the other occupant of the bedroom, Bill knew that his comrade had rolled his eyes. "He's always been the golden apple of her eye. Remember how we would always be punished for any argument we got into with Perce?"

"Of course I do. We would always be put in time-out, or have our mouths washed with soup, which tasted terrible by the way, while Perce never was punished, because he was nothing more than a cowardly tattle-tale. Pathetic."

"I was spanked by Mum with a hairbrush once for punching him so hard that he was vomiting, and his nose was bleeding profusely," Charlie scowled. "I still say he didn't have to cry like that. When you bloodied my nose, I didn't carry on like that. One would think that a pack of Death Eaters were after him, the way he blubbered. Besides, Mum cleaned him up pretty quickly."

"If you were spanked with a hairbrush, that might explain your aversion to hair care," Bill snickered, and sensed Charlie's glower focus on him.

"You never were a very sympathetic bloke, you know that, Bill."

"Sorry," replied Bill unrepentantly. "But you can't tell me it still hurts."

"That is a comment only you would make," retorted Charlie, "and it perfectly proves my point that you are an unsympathetic monster."

"I'll miss you when I leave for the land of the pharaohs, you know," Bill confessed. "It was swell growing up with someone like you, Char, someone to lean on, to count on, to whisper secrets to… and to tell on. Lord, as stupid as it sounds, I think the highlight of my childhood was making you laugh so hard the milk came soaring out of your nose."

"Don't feel to bad, mate, after all, the best part of my childhood was sweeping through the air on a broomstick trying to impress my big brother," mumbled Charlie.

"You did, every time. You were always amazing on a broomstick, I tell you, air was you element. It's a pity that you won't be playing for England."

"Maybe I'll get to fly around on a dragon."

"Bet that's comfy," snorted Bill, and the other teenager chuckled quietly.

"I'll miss midnight conversations like this. We've had lots of fun, and shared loads of time together, and I refuse to believe that it's all going to end, because we're brothers until the end, no matter where we go," insisted Charlie. "I'll keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts."

"Tell me what exploits Fred and George get up to. I can't wait to see if they light Snape's hair on fire―"

"Or flood a corridor," supplied Charlie.

"They'd probably prefer to blow up a corridor, because some lessons might be cancelled," Bill reminded him seriously. "If you write to me about Hogwarts, I'll write to you about Egypt."

"I'll pretend that I give a hoot."

"Good, and I'll return the favor when you want to write to me about your dealings with dragons in Romania." Bill rolled over. "Now it's time for both of us to sleep. Night, Char."

However, Charlie's resounding snores announced that he had already drifted off into a slumber, and it was only a few minutes later that Bill joined him in dreamland.

An hour and a half before he had to be at Gringotts to depart for Egypt, Bill awoke, and dressed in a set of business robes, touched when he saw Charlie clamber out of bed and haphazardly throw on some clothes alongside him. After dressing, the two of them hurried downstairs into the kitchen, where they discovered that the entire family had gathered there.

As her two eldest children arrived in the room, Mrs. Weasley turned around to face them. "Morning, Charlie― and Bill. Bill, since it's your last day here for awhile, I made your favorite breakfast." As she established as much, Mrs. Weasley placed a platter loaded with pancakes and bacon into the hands of each of the new arrivals.

"Pancakes are my favorite, too," commented eight-year-old Ginny, dumping a pat of butter on each of her pancakes, and then spilling a lake of maple syrup over them.

"No, maple syrup is your favorite, tigress," Bill teased, rumpling her long curtain of russet hair affectionately.

"Stop fiddling with my hair, Bill. I'm too old for that, and it messes up my hair, which I just brushed out nicely for Mum." Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Ginny waved her eldest brother's hand away, and smoothed her locks carefully. "You're worse than Fred and George sometimes, you know."

"I beg your pardon, lioness," he responded, half-teasing, and half-serious as he and Charlie plopped down into two vacant chairs, "but your hair looks lovely to me. You'll have all the guys chasing after you in no time."

Gesturing at Fred, George, and Ron in irritation, Ginny grumbled, "They already do, if you haven't noticed, Bill. The nicer my hair looks the more they want to mess it up. Brothers." The eyes traveled upward to the heavens once more.

"I didn't mean your brothers, actually, Ginny-girl," Bill laughed, and his mother and father both glared daggers at him. Ignoring this, he ate his pancakes and bacon at a speed to rival Charlie. Fortunately, Ron inserted himself into the conversation at this point, distracting everyone.

"Pass me the maple syrup, please." Bill's youngest brother held out his hand for the pitcher of syrup.

"Here you go." Bill handed it to him, and watched the nine-year-old drown his pancakes in an ocean of maple syrup.

Apparently, Charlie noticed this, too, for he joked, "Care for some pancakes to go with your syrup, Ronnie?"

Ron's blue eyes blazed like the hottest part of a flame as he whirled upon Charlie. "How many times do I have to tell you, Charlie, that my name is not Ronnie―"

"He's right, you know," interrupted Fred, smiling with innocence, which meant that in a couple of seconds some family member would be trying to hang him, "his real name is Ronald Bilius Weasley."

"And he prefers to be called Ickle Ronniekins," George added, sneering at his little brother, who raised his fork as though about to impale the twins upon it.

Deciding that he did not want his last memory of his family to be Fred and George taunting Ron, and Ron spearing the dreadful duo, Bill stepped in coldly. "Wow, this is a fun game, poking at each other's full names. I wonder how many hours we can spend laughing at names like, hmm, I don't know, Frederick Lysander, and George Arcturus."

"That is not funny," snapped George, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, not humorous at all," Fred snarled, folding his arms over his chest. "And we can have more fun with Charles Septimus Weasley, at any rate." This caused Charlie to glare at both Fred and Bill.

"Let's play a different game, shall we?" Bill suggested as he finished his breakfast, kissed his mum in thanks for the meal, carried his plate over to the sink, and, waving his wand, caused it to start washing itself. Satisfied that it would finish clearing itself just fine, he pivoted, and went over to his sister. "How about a piggy back ride, tigress? For old times' sake?"

Giggling, Ginny wrapped her arms around him as he crouched before her. After he felt her land on his back, he stood up and began to run around the kitchen. As he jogged into the living room, he commented, "You're not too old for this, huh?"

"I'll never be too old for this," she squealed. Her heels digging into his thighs, spurring him, she ordered through her laughs, "Go faster, Bill! Go faster!"

"Nope, this ride is at an end, Ginny-girl." With that, he threw her gently upon the couch, where she landed in a pit of pillows. Sitting down beside her, he ruffled her hair fondly, and this time, she did not protest. "Well, you might never get too old for this, but one day I will. Man, my back hurts. While I was looking the other way, you must have grown something awful," he grumbled.

"Nah, you won't grow too old for this." Ginny shook her head vehemently, her hands flying to her hips in a gesture like her mother's, which made Bill smile ruefully. "I won't let you. I won't allow you to grow old and gray, and have a bad back that won't let you carry me around."

"What are you talking about?" Bill raised his eyebrows at her. "You're the one who's going to wear out my back from all these piggy back rides, and, if you don't want me to go gray, you're going to have to convince Fred and George to undergo an operation that will implant new personalities in them."

"I want a piggy ride, too, Bill." Ron's voice sounded from the kitchen threshold. Apparently, he had watched Ginny's progress, determined that it had seemed fun, and decided he wanted to have a go.

"Then I guess it's your turn, isn't it?" Bill pushed himself off the sofa, and crossed over to his youngest brother, and crouched down before him as he had done with Ginny. A considerable increase in the weight on his back announced Ron's presence there, and he stood up, and started to race about, retracing the steps he had taken with his sister on his back as Ron was now. Just as he had with Ginny, he tossed Ron onto the couch when he was done with the piggy back ride. When he had done that, he kissed Ron and Ginny each on the forehead, remarking, "I'd better get going now. I love you both."

"Love you," Ron answered, hugging him for a few seconds. However, Ginny propelled herself off the sofa angrily when Bill announced that he would be departing soon, and turned her back on him, her arms resting upon her chest in an expression of her fury.

Placing a hand upon her shoulder, because already had surmised what was troubling his sister, Bill inquired, "What's wrong, Ginny-girl?"

"I don't want you to leave." Ginny's voice was moist with unshed tears as she tugged free from his grip. "I don't want things to change. I want you to stay here forever, Bill."

"But things change, and you can stop the change anymore than you can stop the movements of the sun or the stars, though you'd be a fool to desire to, because most changes are good once you adapt to them," Bill attempted to pacify her. "Besides, not much will change when you think about it. I mean, you're used to me being away at school most of the time, and you can always write to me, and I'll write back as soon as I can. Most importantly, we'll always love each other, I promise."

"No!" As she whirled about to face him, her cheeks roses, Ginny sounded as fierce as the wildcats Bill had nicknamed her for. "I shan't love you forever, not if you leave me! Rest assured, if you leave me, you'll kill my love for you! In fact, if you leave me, I'll hate you forever!"

"Ginny," Bill began weakly, shocked by her passion, and wounded by her words, for he had always taken the adoration of his little sister for granted, and he was surprised that, after he had pampered her in ways that he had cared for none of the others, not even Charlie, that she would shoot such things at him.

The fire continued to blaze unabated in Ginny, and she ran over him, without seeming to realize that he had opened his mouth at all. "I never thought that you would have the nerve to leave me. I thought you would stay here with us forever. I thought you loved us."

"I do," Bill informed her, reaching out for her shoulder once again, but she jumped out of his way, evading him in a nimble fashion.

"Then why on earth are you going?" Despite her question, Ginny didn't bother to wait for a reply, but stomped over to the kitchen, and Bill could hear her feet punishing the floor as she marched up the stairs.

Puzzled, Bill glanced at Ron, who had always been close to Ginny, but all he did was shrug. "Well, bye, Ron," he repeated, hugging his younger brother. With that, he entered the kitchen again. It was time for him to say farewell to the rest of the Weasley pack.

Messing up the twins' hair, he commented, "Good-bye, devils. Try not to make school hell."

"Whether we make school hell is really a matter of perspective," observed Fred, snickering.

"Sort of like it's a matter of perspective whether you make life at the Burrow hell," Charlie reasoned dryly, and Bill laughed. Without a doubt, he would miss the bantering of his many brothers.

Deliberately misconstruing the intent of this statement, George nodded. "Exactly, big bro. Hell and heaven are nothing more than states of mind, so whether school is heaven or hell is a personal choice, Bill."

"Tell that to McGonagall after she puts you in detention for three weeks in a row after just one of the stunts you pull at home," retorted Bill, as he moved onto Percy, who held out his hand pompously for older sibling to shake.

"Farewell, Bill, I wish you nothing but success in your future endeavors," pronounced Percy with the air of the Minister of Magic making a very important speech to a crowd of witches and wizards.

"I hope you do well in school," Bill responded, "so that you can go into the Ministry and all." Great, that was almost as dull as what Percy had said, but, after all, he didn't really know Perce that much, and, so had no idea what else he could possibly say. Fortunately, Percy seemed content with this, and turned back to his bacon, which he was eating in tiny, perfect mouthfuls.

Clapping Charlie on the shoulder, Bill whispered in his ear, "We said everything last night, Char."

"Yeah, get going now, slowpoke." Charlie gruffly shoved him away.

Bill hugged his father good-bye now, neither of them saying anything. After he had embraced his dad for several long minutes enjoying the solid feel of the man who had raised him, and had been the giant of his childhood, Bill transferred his attention to his mum. When he threw his arms around her, she advised him thickly, "Don't worry about Ginny. She'll get over your leaving, and regret snapping at you like this, and you must understand that she only behaved in this way because she loves you, and doesn't want to see you leave her." Mrs. Weasley offered him a watery smile. "Like mother, like daughter."

"Tell her I love her, and I'm not mad about what she said when she came down."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Weasley patter his cheek fondly. "Make sure you put on loads of anti-sunburn potion, mind you, for the desert sun is merciless on the skin, and you're so handsome without burns all over you…"

"I'll do that, Mum, don't worry," Bill reassured her, kissing her on the cheek, before running upstairs, and conducting his trunk downstairs with his upraised wand. Then he left the Burrow, and Apparated into Gringotts with his trunk in hand.

Barely twenty minutes later, a dizzy Bill Weasley was emerging from a fireplace in a white marble building very similar to the Gringotss bank he had just left in the fire behind him. In fact, if it weren't for the snatches of conversations in a foreign tongue that Bill suspected wasn't Gobbledegook, and many witches and wizards wearing attire that they would not have worn in London, Bill might have feared that he had made an error in Flooing himself, despite the thousands of times he transported himself in this manner, and landed right back where he had started.

As he stumbled out of the hearth, he glanced frantically to his every side, hopeful of spotting some sort of sign that would provide him with direction. Not that it would be of much assistance to him, he realized with a tinge of bitterness scarcely a second later, because, while he could read hieroglyphics, he could not read the modern language of Egypt, and he doubted the signs would be written in hieroglyphics.

Fortunately, at this point, a min with jets for eyes, and scars lining his hard face like constellations in the nighttime sky bustled up to him. "You're the new Cure-Breaker trainee, aren't you?" Without waiting for an affirmative response, the wizard continued briskly, "I'm Monsieur Louis Blancheflor. I'm your mentor, which, undoubtedly, will not be a pleasure for either of us, although, most likely, it will be a short-lived torture for both of us, because, if you're anything like the last six kids I was supposed to train up, you'll be out of here in a week or two. While you're with me, you can call me Monsieur Louis, or if you butcher that like some of my pupils have, you may call me Mr. Louis."

"Pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Louis," Bill replied, forcing a charming smile, or what he prayed was a charming smile out, even though he supposed that meeting Monsieur Louis was not going to get any more delightful.

"Well, your French pronunciation, though it sorely needs work, could be worse," growled Monsieur Louis. "But don't go getting confident, _jeune home_ (young man). The Canadian definitely did much better, and she wasn't even French Canadian, if I recall correctly. _Aan het werk _(to work), as the goblins would say. By the way, the goblins have already sent your luggage on ahead, and I've taken the liberty of putting you things on your camel―"

"Camel? Why do we need camels? Why can't we just Apparate?"

"You'd be foolish, _garcon_ (boy), to attempt to Apparate or Disapparate around so many ancient defensive enchantments. Dreadfully painful things would happen to you if you tried to do so," leered Louis, pushing him briskly down a corridor. "Let's get a move on, shall we? Rottentooth and Foulbreath are waiting for us outside, so we can go to our assigned pyramid to get out hands on some treasure."

"Excuse me, but who exactly are we meeting?" Bill felt as if Louis were babbling on in a language he could only halfway comprehend.

"Rottentooth and Foulbreath, goblins, of course, given their names, which no human parents, however abusive, would ever bestow upon their children. They're my companion goblins."

"Companion goblins, Monsieur Louis?" Bill wondered if perhaps he should stop asking questions, as every answer was only serving to get him more lost, not less.

"Yes, companion goblins, garcon, that's what I said, isn't it? Don't ask stupid questions, or we'll not get along well, which means that I might make a sacrifice of you to some ancient Egyptian god or goddess."

"I was asking for clarification, not repeating what you just said, Monsieur." Bill tried to keep his tone level. "I was wondering what companions goblins are, actually."

"Companions goblins travel with us, and ensure that we don't take the treasure for ourselves. Perhaps you're not aware of it, but goblins don't trust humans, especially in matter of commerce, and those at Gringotts are the most adamant in that belief, although, of course, if you are mental enough to stay here, you might become here, you might become reasonably friendly with your companion goblins, as I have with Rottentooth and Foulbreath."

Bill felt his spine straightening, because he was offended by the constant hints that he had the intellectual caliber of a dung beetle or a goldfish. "For your information, Monsieur, I learned about goblin beliefs regarding treasure, and the resultant conflicts between goblins and wizards and goblins in History of Magic."

"Did you really? Forgive me, for I've dealt with many young people your age who have received top marks in school, and still have a brain the approximate size of a grain of sand," Louis drawled, as he guided Bill down yet another hallway. "Well, we've a few more minutes left before we reach Rottentooth and Foulbreath, who are outside waiting for us, so it's a perfect opportunity fore me to learn more about you."

Without providing Bill with a chance to speak, Louis plowed on, "They gave me your name, but I saw no point in remembering it. After all, you'll be like all the others, and gone in a blasted month. If you doubt it, let me guess a few things about you: you got top marks at school, you took more classes than any semi-sane being would, and you were most likely granted a position of honor at your school, which explain why you were able to find a career here. Yet, despite of your achievements, which would ensure you a fine job at home, you choose to leave for a cursed desert, which indicates that you have something you want to leave behind. A bad family life, perhaps? That's what it was with most of mine, whether they admitted it to me."

"I love my family, and they love me, for your information, sir," Bill educated him crisply.

"Fascinating." They arrived outside a pair of glass double doors, and Louis yanked them open. Seconds later, they were both stepping out into a sandy desert boulevard, the shining Egyptian sun blinding them. As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the piercing glare, Bill realized that two goblins were sitting on a camel before them. Another camel was packed with Bill's baggage, and, clearly, was meant to be his. The last camel, also filled with human luggage, must belong to Louis.

"_Nu kunnen wij krijen te werken (_Now we can get to work," the two goblins asserted as Louis joined them, and Bill, shadowing him hesitantly, not enjoying the fact that he did not understand the words the goblins had just said to Louis in Gobbledegook.

"_Ja, kunnen wij _(Yes, we can)," agreed Louis, also in Gobbledegook, as he swung himself lightly onto his camel in one swift movement. To Bill, who was gazing nervously at the camel he was expected to mount, he added in terse English, "Hurry up, and get on. We don't have time to lollygag, _garcon _(boy)."

"I don't know how to climb onto a camel," Bill confessed. "By the way, my name is Bill Weasley, and you can feel free to use it."

Sighing in aggravation, Louis dismounted, and guided Bill up onto the camel with impersonal, professional hands. After Bill was settled upon his camel, where he did not feel very secure or comfortable, so far from the ground on a smelly animal he had only ever seen in pictures, Louis leaped back onto his own mount, and instructed Bill, "Exercise caution, Weasley. Hold onto the neck of your camel, so you don't fall off, but don't hold on too tight, otherwise, your camel will bite you. Just follow my lead, and you should be fine." Apparently convinced that he had done his duty by the newcomer, Louis faced Rottentooth and Foulbreath in Gobbledegook once again.


	31. Chapter 31

Gobbledegook

Author's Note: Elise- since you reviewed anonymously (which is fine), I can't PM you, so I'll reply here, so that you know I read your comments. Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying the fic, and like the different perspective. I was afraid that something like every sentence would be wrong by using an online translator. (I don't think online translators conjugate verbs, etc.), but I was too lazy to invent my own language, and I was right, basically everything is wrong. I'm changing 'nr' to 'nee' wherever I see it, but if I miss it, let me know. Sorry about the mistake. I could understand how it could be grating. (My Spanish teacher always tells us how some of the common mistakes people who don't normally speak Spanish make when speaking Spanish can really be annoying so I guess I can understand where you're coming from.) As for your English, I thought it was really good, actually. (I wish I could write that well in Spanish, or Latin, and I'm in A.P, lol.)

Gobbledegook (Dutch) and any French that appears is based on online translations. Translations appear in parenthesis for the average person, like me, who doesn't speak either of these languages. Sorry if my description of desert life is not the best, but have pity on me. The last time I saw a desert was when I visited Arizona with my family back in the fourth-grade. By the way, sorry it took so long for me to update, but my dear Aunt Mary Ann died of cancer two days before Christmas, and yesterday and the day before were her wake and funeral, and I just didn't have the time or the energy to write a chappie. Hopefully, this one is not complete rubbish.

Reviews: Are a low-carb and low-fat form of snacking, and I eat them up if you offer me them. Thanks to all my regular reviewers, who are all awesome people, and who I hope will review this time around, too.

Disclaimer: Not mine, it's not Honors Chemistry, or rocket science, whichever you think is more challenging. Personally, I'm going with Honors Chem., which I got a "B " in this semester, which is exceptionally good, seeing as I have no clue what is happening in that class, even though it's not as wonderful as my normal A's, as my parents were happy to remind me. All those nasty equations things go over my head even more than Trig. does.

"_Het zal twee dagen van hard het berijden zijn alvorens wij ons toegewezen graf bereiken_(It'll be two days of hard riding before we reach our assigned tomb)," commented one goblin, who Bill decided to call Foulbreath until he received contradictory data, in a grim voice that suggested that he was announcing the death of a close friend, if he even had one.

"_Slechter zou kunnen zijn_ (Could be worse)," replied the other goblin on a shrug. "_Zo kent u om het even wat over de rijkdom die wij daarin zal vinden?_ (So do you know anything about the riches we will find in it?)"

"_Oh, gebruikelijk_ (Oh, the usual)," the first goblin answered in his stone tone. "_De gouden sarcofagen, fijne gemmen, aardige houten miniatuurboten die met al grafeigenaar worden geladen moet van het leven in het verdere leven, en blokkenwagens genieten._ (Golden sarcophaguses, fine gems, nice wooden miniature boats loaded with all the tomb owner needs to enjoy life in the afterlife, and chariots.)" Turning to Louis, the creature demanded, "_En u bent zeker geen Muggles ongeveer is_?"( And you're sure no Muggles are about?)"

"_De veiligheid haalde hen leeg en wijzigde alle noodzakelijk geheugen, zoals altijd._(Security cleared them out and modified all the necessary memories, as always)," Louis responded.

"_Weet u welke charmes op de piramide, toen zijn?_ (Do you know what charms are on the pyramid, then?)" pressed the first goblin.

"_Geen spanning. Het is enkel gebruikelijk, bereken ik, van wat de verkenners zeiden. Basis hexuitdraaien en verdedigingscharmes._ (No stress. It's just the usual, I reckon, from what the scouts said. Basic hexes and defensive charms.)" Louis sounded impatient now. "_Ontspan, Foulbreath_. (Relax, Foulbreath.)"

"Do you mind if I interrupt long enough to inquire what on earth you're saying to each other?" Bill snapped, because he felt even more confused, and, for some reason was convinced that they were yammering to each other about him, making fun of him, although he suspected that this notion was nothing more than the paranoia resulting from being an outsider separated by the language barrier, the hardest wall to breach.

"Why do you care?" Louis switched to English rapidly. "We aren't talking to you, and I doubt you'd understand your native tongue much better."

Vexed by the whole situation and infuriated by Louis' jibe, Bill bit his lip, struggling to control his temper, before he gritted out, "It just makes me uncomfortable having people talk to each other around me in a language I am not familiar with, because it makes me feel like the they're talking about me. Besides, I won't be able to learn anything if I don't have a clue what you're saying."

At this, Louis' brows arched. "I take it you're interested in learning Gobbledegook, then, Weasley?"

"It seems that it would be prudent to learn it, as that all any of you ever seem to converse in," Bill mumbled, "but it'll take time, and I would appreciate all the help I can get."

"I'll be happy to teach you when we camp at night," Louis said, at his most charitable so far, "as I suppose it is my duty. Speaking of which, here's a Gobbledegook-English dictionary." He shoved a small leather-bound book into Bill's hands. "Feel free to use it. It's not as bad as it could be, and I should know because I had to rely on it when I was struggling to learn the complexities of Gobbledegook."

"Thanks, I'll be sure to use it." Mildly interested, Bill flipped through the tome. "May I ask what you were saying to Foulbreath and Rottentooth, Monsieur Louis?"

"We just said that it would be two days of hard riding before we arrived at the pyramid, and that no Muggles would be about, and the defensive charms and hexes will probably only be the usual."

"The usual, Monsieur Louis?" Bill asked.

"Nothing you've ever seen before, most likely," Louis sneered. "Don't worry too much though, _garcon _(boy), because I'll be there, and I'll do all the work. If you just watch and obey me, you should survive, although I make no promises."

When the blazing desert sun, which was causing rivers of sweat to flow down Bill's back and arms, finally began its descent, staining the sand a blood red much like the dying sun, Louis and the goblins decided to halt for the night. At this point, Bill was not pleased to discover that they only had a pair two-man tents with them, which meant that Foulbreath and Rottentooth would by sharing one, and he and Louis would be sharing the other. However, he was relieved when he discovered that, due to several lovely magical enchantments, the two-man tent he was supposed to inhabit with Louis was actually considerably more spacious than it appeared from the outside. In fact, it had a bathroom, a kitchen, fully equipped with all the cooking utensils even his mother would desire, and a decent sized bedroom that housed two sets of bunks. Having never been camping in his life, Bill was astonished by what could be packed into this deceptively small tent.

Spotting his amazement, Louis smirked. "Never seen anything like this before, huh, Weasley?"

"No," Bill replied as he dumped his luggage on the floor of the kitchen with a wave of his wand, "I've never been camping before, because I grew up in England when You-Know-Who was at the height of his power, so my parents probably didn't want a vacation to be the death of us." He didn't add that his family probably would not have been able to afford much of a vacation anyway.

For a moment, Louis' expression softened for a fraction of a second. "I forgot that you would have grown up when he was at the height of his power, because I'm French, and his influence was never as great on the continent as it was in Britain. Must not have been an overly pleasant way to grow up." Regaining his brusque manner, he gestured at the bedroom they were doomed to share, "You can take the left bunk, top or bottom, I don't care. Do try to keep your stuff neat, or, if you can't be orderly with your belongings, please go to the immense trouble of storing your rubbish on your side of the bedroom, not mine."

Pointing his wand at his luggage, Bill caused it to soar into the next room. As he followed it, he pivoted to add to Monsieur Louis, "Oh, and don't worry about me. I can't remember the last time I had a room to myself. At school, I roomed with four other boys, and, at home, I shared a bedroom with my younger brother. I'm used to keeping my sector clean." The instant he established as much, he regretted it, because it prompted a terrible tide of homesickness to overcome him. He missed Chris, Mike, Brian, and Jason, missed all their weird night sounds, and their midnight conversations, missed the way they would slip into the dormitory late, trying not to wake the others. Even more, if it was possible, he longed for Charlie's presence, because the room they shared had become one of their favorite places to hang out together for hours, a place where they their lives and hearts, not just their dreams.

Annoyed at himself for his weakness, Bill began to shove his clothes into his nightstand, unaware of Louis entering the room. In fact, he only noticed the man's presence when he grunted, "I'm going to take a shower, _garcon_ (boy), because I've got to get the sweat off of me. When I'm finished, you can take one while I cook dinner. After we sup, I will begin the undoubtedly nearly impossible task of teaching you Gobbledegook."

Without waiting for a response from the younger man, Monsieur Louis stomped off in the direction of the washroom, and, Bill, shrugging in irritation, resumed his task of placing his folded clothing in drawers. When he had completed this, he placed his brush and comb on his nightstand, along with several textbooks he had brought with him, and a book he was reading in his spare time. Then he collapsed on the bottom bunk of his assigned bed, gazing up at the canvas top of the tent, too exhausted to move, for several long minutes before Monsieur Louis returned, wearing Muggle sweat pants and a T-shirt.

"Desert nights can get chillier than you might suspect," Louis informed him, catching sight of his raised eyebrows. For a moment, the grizzled Curse-Breaker scrutinized Bill's half of the room critically, and then shrugged, apparently finding nothing to deride. Indeed, Bill went so far as to suspect that he might have been satisfied, because he commented, "It's neater than it was when I was sharing with that American four months ago, but I suppose it should be, seeing as you are British, and everyone knows that a British person is so organized that, even when he stands alone, he feels compelled to form an orderly queue of one."

"You can't have a queue of one, Monsieur Louis, as a queue is a line and of necessity requires at least two beings," Bill reminded his mentor, more than a little aggravated, as he yanked out a pair of pajamas, and hurried off to the bathroom to shower while Louis, rolling his eyes because the British boy had missed the joke, marched off to the kitchen.

"It's quiche," Monsieur Louis educated him crisply as he set what appeared to be a pie crust loaded with egg on the table between the two of them. "A delicious French pie, not to be confused with English pies, which are invariably disgusting, and tend to be filled with revolting, stomach-turning animal parts like liver and kidney."

"Escargot is snails, Monsieur," retorted Bill, as he poured himself a glass of wine, which he was not surprised to discover was French, "and isn't that a delicacy in France?"

"Don't go getting drunk on me, Weasley, and eat your quiche. Quiche is made of eggs, and, therefore, tastes awful cold." As he spoke, Louis poured himself a goblet of wine, and sipped appreciatively at it, mumbling about how hard it was to get decent French wine in the middle of an Egyptian desert, and the outrageous price of doing so.

"I've never met anyone who got drunk off wine." Obediently, Bill picked up his fork, and scooped up some quiche, which he tentatively chewed and swallowed, testing it. To his surprise, he discovered that, not only was the quiche edible, it was actually quite scrumptious, although he suspected that anything would be appetizing after a day in the desert. "It's good!"

"Of course it is," snapped Louis, "I made it, didn't I?"

After that explosion, Bill decided that the most prudent course of action open to him was to remain silent, and it transpired that Louis had nothing more to say, either, because the rest of the meal passed in absolute quiet, the only sound in the room the clinking of cutlery. When they were done eating, Louis flicked his wand in an indolent fashion, and the dishes flew over to the sink, where, upon Louis' wand wave, they began to wash themselves. With a further wave of his wand, he Summoned a container of iced tea to the kitchen table from the refrigerator.

"Long days in the desert, especially ones full of hard riding make an old man like me thirsty," he justified as he poured himself a glass of iced tea in a vessel he had just Summoned from a cabinet. "Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" Then he repeated the question in Gobbledegook. "_Goed, neer aan zaken, word zullen wij?_"

Bill nodded, and Louis told him, "In Gobbledegook, yes is _ja._"

Smiling, Bill repeated, "_Ja_."

Gesturing at the iced tea bottle, Louis inquired, "_Wilt u wat bevroren thee? _(Do you want some iced tea?)"

Not knowing how to say refuse in Gobbledegook, Bill merely shook his head. Once more, Louis supplied, "No in Gobbledegook is _nee_ and no, thank you in Gobbledegook is _nee, dankt u_."

"_Nee, dankt u_," he replied in Gobbledegook, slowly, trying to imitate Louis' pronunciation.

"_Werk uit, verklaar_.(Elaborate, explain.)," urged Louis, rolling his hand expansively in order to make his English meaning plain. When Bill hesitated, he added in the other's native tongue, "If you don't know how to express yourself in Gobbledegook, do so in English and I will translate for you. Then you can repeat my translation, and you can always feel free to use your dictionary, even though, at first, it will go much too slowly if you have to look up every word."

"I don't want iced tea, because it's against everything England stands for," Bill grinned. "We're a nation of people who love our tea, and I mean actual hot tea."

For minute, he thought he saw a ghost of a smile take shape on Louis' face, before he translated in his typical clipped voice, "_Ik wil geen bevroren thee, omdat het tegen alles de tribunes van Engeland voor is. Wij zijn een natie van mensen die van onze thee houden, en ik bedoel daadwerkelijke hete thee._"

Once again, Bill echoed the translation, taking his time over every word, trying to pronounce all the strange syllables correctly, or reasonably accurately, so that a goblin could guess at his meaning.

"_Waarom?(_Why?)" Louis pressed in Gobbledegook. "Niemand wil een hete drank in het midden van een hete woestijn. (Nobody wants a hot drink in the middle of a hot desert.)" To illustrate his statement, he jabbed his finger at the outside desert, fanned his face, and pointed at a coffee mug.

"_Nee_," Bill started in Gobbledegook, then lapsed back into his native language, "but you said earlier that desert nights get chilly, and I imagine I could drink tea then. Besides, tea drinking is a soothing ritual that doesn't require a specific outside temperature."

Again, the edges of Louis's mouth quirked upwards slightly before he translated Bill's remark into Gobblegook, and Bill repeated it, this time in the foreign tongue. As soon as Bill had done so, Louis commented, "Speaking of night, it is getting late, and we'd best get to bed. We have a hard day's ride before us, you know." To clarify, he pointed at his watch, mimed resting his head on a pillow, moved his hand about like a rising sun, and then pretended to be riding a camel.

"_Ja_," agreed Bill, rising along with the elder man.

"That wasn't as horrible a first lesson as I expected it would be, though that may only be because you're better than that American I had to deal with last time. It was obvious he had no interest in learning any language except his own, which he didn't feel compelled to speak properly, either," asserted Louis, switching back to English as they entered the bedroom, and began preparing for sleep. "You're pronunciation could have been worse. Did you learn some other language before?"

"I learned a bit of Portuguese one summer from a pen pal in Brazil, but nothing major, Monsieur Louis." Bill shrugged. "The lessons were terminated pretty quickly, too, when he found out I couldn't visit his country on an exchange trip."

"Humph," Louis snorted, "then maybe you just have a knack for languages, some people do, you know. Ah, well, I reckon that you'll have an auspicious career at the International Magical Cooperation Department, or whatever the rot it's called, when you quit here in a week or so."

"I don't want to work in the Ministry, Monsieur Louis. I decided that ages ago," Bill stated firmly as he collected his toothbrush and sallied off to the washroom.


	32. Chapter 32

First Pyramid

Disclaimer: If you think that it's mine, you have only to learn how to make a hat before you can call yourself a mad hatter.

Reviews: As always, I will make a point of responding to any and all reviews I am fortunate enough to get, and I thank you in advance for giving me them. Positive feedback can really cheer me up immensely. (If you don't like the story, I can't understand why you're reading Chapter 32, because really there are better things you could be doing than reading the 32nd chapter of a fanfic you don't care for very much, I should imagine.) Thanks to all my loyal reviewers, who brighten my days with their compliments, which make me blush and smile like the idiot I am, and who keep me scribbling away, and who are all such kind and awesome people, as far as I can tell from my experiences with you online. (If you don't think you are a kind and awesome person, you're just being modest.)

Author's Note: Bill takes on some ancient Egyptian spells at last! Yay! I tried to make the pyramid experience as realistic as possible, but I confess that I am no expert on ancient Egyptian culture, so if you spot something that you find glaringly inaccurate, please tell me, and I will try to mend it as much as possible. Now, I will be quiet and get on with the actual story.

At around one o'clock in the afternoon of their second day of hard riding on camel back, a state of affairs Bill's bottom could not condone as it was very, very sore indeed as a result of this, after eating croissants filled with brie cheese and ham soaked in some sort of French sauce, a lunch that Foulbreath and Rottentooth described as "completely revolting" in Gobbledegook, a pronouncement that prompted a glower on Monsieur Louis' face, and a triumphant grin on Bill's because he could actually understand their critical analysis, a towering sandstone pyramid came into view. Upon glimpsing this edifice, which was glittering like a million ice crystals in this blazing, arid region, and, which, therefore, stood out like an iceberg in a desert in more ways than one, Bill felt his breath snag in his throat. Somehow, it was one thing to read about the splendor of ancient Egyptian tombs, or even to gaze admiringly at pictures of them, but it was another to see the beauty, the grandeur in person. It was far more impressive, much more breath-taking, an apt adjective, considering the fact that it was being employed to describe a burial place.

When he could speak, he croaked, sounding rather like a frog that had accidentally wandered into a desert instead of a more moist location, "Monsieur Louis, I thought you said it would be two days of hard riding before we arrived at our tomb."

"That I did, and, nothing has changed since, meaning it will be," grumbled Louis, who was studying the sand filled ground without really appearing to see it, and did not seem to appreciate the intrusion upon whatever daydream he had been having. "Please tell me that you aren't one of those people who incessantly demands in a whiny voice, 'Are we there yet?' Honestly, if I wanted to be asked that question twenty times a minute, I would have married, instead of remaining a bachelor, and produced brats of my own."

"I'm not a five-year-old, if that's what you're wondering, Monsieur Louis," Bill replied steadily, having become accustomed to his mentor's austere manner by now. As he went on, he gestured expansively at the pyramid as if to prove his point beyond all rational dispute, "However, I assumed that we'd be arriving sooner, seeing as that is our pyramid up ahead."

"Well, you assumed wrong, didn't you?" snarled Louis with his customary civility. Spotting the younger man's bemusement, he explained in a little miler voice, "It'll take us two hours yet to reach that tomb, Weasley, which is considerably further away than it looks to the uninitiated, such as yourself. That being said, since it's only got the standard spells on it, it should be easy, for me, not for you, obviously, to get through to the inner chamber where the treasures are buried alongside the mummy before the sun goes down, which is good, because only fool would desire to roam about an Egyptian pyramid after dark, and I'm not a fool, whatever else I am."

"Yes, Monsieur," responded Bill, causing Louis to glare suspiciously at him, suspecting insolence, an action which convinced him that it would be most judicious of him to keep his mouth clamped shut until they arrived outside the tomb, a feat which he managed to accomplish.

When they reached the pyramid, Foulbreath, Rottentooth, and Louis all dismounted their camels in swift, casual movements, Bill a bit behind them in speed and ease. When Bill searched the scenery in vain for a place to tether his steed, Louis informed him in a breeze, "Don't bother, Weasley. Just tell your camel to stay and it will stay. It has been trained, like a dog, to stay put until it is told to do otherwise."

"I see." Bill turned his focus to his camel, and, feeling like an imbecile, because he was completely convinced that the animal would not understand him, which mean that he was in essence talking to an inanimate object, he commanded, "Stay here until I come back."

"To work," Rottentooth and Foulbreath, standing by the entrance to the pyramid, clearly waiting for Louis, and looking the very picture of impatience, commented in rapid Gobbledegook.

"To work," Louis and Bill agreed, also in Gobbledegook. When he heard his student speak in the goblin tongue, Louis seemed slightly pleased, although he quickly schooled his expression into blankness, as the pair of them stepped in front of the two goblins. As he stepped up to stand before the entrance to the tomb, Louis withdrew his wand from his pocket, and Bill did the same figuring he might need it.

"Right, I'm about to enter the tomb, so everyone do me a major favor and stay alert," Louis declared. Looking at Bill, he nodded in approval when he saw that the boy had taken out his wand, and ordered, "You shouldn't have to do much. Just stay by me, so I can save your sorry skin as often as necessary, and do as I say, no matter how stupid it sounds, because, believe me, I'm considerably more experienced and more intelligent than you are, and if you value your life, you'll follow my lead. The goblins will go behind you because goblins aren't able to have wands, and you may be able to defend the and yourself against some basic hexes and curses, should the need arise."

"Got it," Bill muttered somewhat absently, his eyes fixated on runes on top of the entrance, and he translated, feeling a tad nervous and wondering what exactly he had signed himself up for, "Enter, thief, and plunder the treasure found herein, and you won't find safe passage to the afterlife."

"A waste of a curse on the part of the Egyptians," remarked Louis on an eye roll, "as it only applies to their conception of the afterlife, not to the Christian one that you and I believe in, and not to the nothingness our atheistic goblins insist comes after death."

"I contend, Louis, that we are all atheists," Foulbreath cut in, speaking English. "I just happen to believe in one fewer god than you and Weasley here do."

"Exactly, when you humans understand why you dismiss all other possible gods and goddesses save your own, you'll comprehend why we so readily dismiss yours as nonsense as well," finished Rottentooth, also in English.

"And I would contend that you do, in fact, have a god, treasure," Louis retorted, "but arguing theology is a waste of breath for all concerned." Turning to face Bill again, he explained, "Anyhow, with a curse like that, Weasley, you don't even need to bother breaking it, because it shan't have any effect on your companions. Now, we enter the tomb."

With that, he pointed his wand at the door and murmured, "Alohomora," and the door swung open in compliance. Slowly, Louis edged into the pyramid, and Bill followed him tentatively, Rottentooth and Foulbreath bringing up the rear. Inside it was dank and musty, the air stale from being trapped for centuries, and the only source of illumination was from the doorway they were leaving behind, meaning the outside light streamed upon the dirt ground like bony fingers of a skeleton, a thought that did not comfort Bill. He needed another source of light before he went around the twist in here. With that in mind, he silently commanded, 'Lumos,' and the tip of his wand flared.

"I was waiting to see if you would do that, Weasley," Louis observed, igniting his own wand as he established as much. "You've passed that test at least."

Bill found that he could not reply to this, as the oppressiveness of the place felt like a burden in his chest. For some reason, he thought he heard voices, whispers, not from his comrades, but rather from long dead, ancient voices that somehow had seeped into the sandstone, infecting the sandstone of this tomb. And he was willing to swear on oath that the shadows themselves were moving...

Still, he followed his instructor deeper into the tomb, and saw that the lines of the pyramid were becoming harsher as they progressed. The walls were higher now, and narrowed slightly as they rose, in order to create a sensation that any intruders were trapped. Angles on corners were slightly off in a way that Bill, having heard of Egyptian mathematical prowess, suspected was nothing less than calculated, engineered to keep beings off-balance, to intimidate them. There were no openings for air or illumination. Just cold sandstone decorated with fading mosaics of animal gods and goddesses and ancient battles filled with chariots.

After a few more minutes, they came to a giant archway, which was inscribed with hieroglyphics on its top, which Bill was unable to read in the wandlight, but didn't have to, because Louis mumbled undoubtedly for his benefit, "Pass on into my sanctuary, and you will find that it is in reality a fortress, for the statues themselves will rise against you."

At this, Bill found himself focusing on mammoth statues in the shape of pharaohs that were posed like sentries on the right and left side of the opposite end of the arch. However, Louis was utterly unfazed by the threat, and merely chanted, "Innerte le charmare, pacifire les statuguas, et permitto nos entrarado." Switching back into English, he stated, "We may carry on now. I've made the charm inactive, made the statues remain still, and made the curse allow us to enter."

As they continued, going still deeper into the pyramid now, the darkness that engulfed them became almost absolute, and he was having trouble following the path Louis blazed for them, because he was not able to see very well in the dark, something that did not palgue the goblins who liked being underground, and so were well adapted to the dark. This meant that he ended up making a misstep. In theory, it was a small one, as they rounded a corner, his foot accidentally kicked into a stone that guarded the door to, what Louis had called a trick chamber. Apparently, a curse against entry into the fake chamber had been placed on this particular stone, and abruptly, before Bill was even conscious of what was occurring a human skeleton had emerged from the chamber, and slammed into him.

Stunned, he crashed to the floor, somehow maintaining his grip on his wand, his only weapon. Barely a second later, the skeleton had collapsed upon him, the bones holding him captive, like a lion in a cage. He tired to raise his wand to make the human remains disappear, but was unable to swish his arm, meaning he could not work the spell...and what was that moving about in the eye socket holes? Merlin, it was a scorpion, and it was moving toward him! Damn, he knew today wasn't his day, but this...what a way to die...and the scorpion had crawled onto his forehead now, and was making ready to sting him with his tail... and his whole rather unspectacular, all too brief life was flashing before his eyes...

The next thing he knew, the skeleton and the scorpion had vanished. Puzzled, and panting, he glanced up from his position in the dust, and noted that Louis was standing above him, his wand clearly just finished whipping through the air. Feeling humiliated, Bill shoved himself to his feet, and muttered ruefully to his mentor, "Sorry about that. It was a stupid misstep. I was an idiot, and got lost in the dark, and it could have been the death of me, if you hadn't saved me. Thanks for doing so, by the way."

He was prepared for Louis to add several more flaws to this assessment, and he was perfectly willing to endure a stinging diatribe, because, at least, he was still alive to hear it. What he hadn't been anticipating was for the weathered Curse-Breaker to shrug his shoulders gruffly. "Don't need to thank me for doing my job, and you made a common enough mistake. It takes a bit of time to get used to the dark and the narrow passages. At least you kept a hold on your wand, and you didn't totally lose your head."

"I didn't?" Bill couldn't keep the incredulity out of his tone as they resumed their journey, the two goblins still behind them.

"Well, you didn't scream anyway," Louis answered briskly as he came to a halt outside tow chamber doors, and Bill thought the only reason he had not howled was because he had been too numb with fear to do so, but if the older man wanted to see valor in it, that was fine with him, as it might allow him a vestige of dignity. For a moment, he frowned at the pair of entryways, and then pointed at the one to the left. "That one."

He raised his wand, muttered some words to counter the curse written in runes over the door, and cast an alohomora charm on the door, which opened obediently. As the goblins filed past Bill and Louis into the inner chamber where dwelt the mummy and all its earthly belongings, Rottentooth and Foulbreath mumbled their thanks. When the goblins moved on ahead, Louis pivoted to eye Bill carefully. "Our work is done. The goblins prefer to move the treasure up themselves. We can go back outside, and set up camp. It might do you good to get outside again, because you look like you've just become a ghost for God's sake." As he began to guide his pupil out of the tomb, he added, "You need sugar. I'll make some eclairs tonight."

"You can make eclairs?" Bill demanded, and he felt his eyes bulge in alarm.

"Yep, and napoleons, and truffles, and tiramisu. Not bad for an old bachelor, huh?" Louis sounded almost amused.

Late that night, after they had erected their tent, showered, ate a French dinner washed down with champagne, and had started with Louis' delicious platter of eclairs, Louis spoke again for the first time since his bachelor comment. "You don't look so pale anymore."

Bill decided not to respond to this.

"So, have you chosen to quit yet?" pressed Louis.

"No, I don't quit ever," scowled Bill, "and I won't make the same mistake again."

"I hope not," Louis remarked, "and you are a persistent one."

"And you're not, Monsieur Louis?" Bill demanded.

"Humph, well, I didn't say it was a bad attribute," grumbled Louis, and they lapsed into silence once more.


	33. Chapter 33

Letters

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After Bill's experience in his first pyramid coupled with his assertion that he was not going anywhere, Monsieur Louis softened his treatment of the younger man considerably. Although he was still more than willing to poke fun at his pupil, the flinty edge of mockery had almost vanished from his voice, and he seemed to be trying to become friendlier with Bill now that he recognized that he would indeed have to live with the young man for a year. Also, he was more willing to involve Bill in the art of Curse-Breaking, beginning to allow him to render the ancient enchantments ineffective, and pick the paths through which they travelled to the main chamber where the mummy and its treasure were preserved. Even though he occasionally made errors in choosing the pathways, which often led to terrifying situations for him, Louis, Foulbreath, and Rottentooth, on a whole, Bill was convinced that he was not awful at selecting the correct passageways, and he certainly had a knack for breaking curses in speaking his own countercurses in the ancient language, because he had yet to fail in that regard.

Similarly, Bill found that his lessons in Gobbledegook were progressing well enough. Now he could comprehend most of what the goblins said in their language, and was capable of conversing with them in their own tongue, although there were undeniably times when he was getting his point across in a primitive, round-about fashion. Once he could engage in actual exchanges with the goblins, he was pleased to discover that he rather liked them, even if they were obsessed with treasure and slow to trust humans.

In fact, as July faded into August and August slipped lethargically into September, Bill suspected that as much as wizards and goblins could claim friendship he, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath were friends, or, at the very least, they understood each other, and just might be fond of each other. Stranger things could have happened in the history of civilization at any rate, Bill reasoned. Furthermore, Bill discovered that he was quite fond of Louis, even if he was a jaded old bachelor, and he surmised, based on Louis' new amicability that the grizzled Curse-Breaker returned the feeling.

As he gravitated closer to his desert companions, Bill realized dimly that he was no longer scribbling notes to his Hogwarts friends, and they were not sending letters to him anymore, nor was he leafing through Heather's scrapbook as he had done every night when he first arrived in Egypt. This was driven home to him on September 3rd when Errol and a tawny school owl flew into the tent that he and Louis shared through the open flap, causing Nekhebet to trill a welcome, and Louis' eyebrows to take on the shape of comas. The two birds soared into the bedroom the two humans were lounging about in after breaking into an Egyptian king's tomb, which the goblins were removing trunks of riches from at the moment. "Popular, huh, Weasley?" he drawled.

"From my family, my biggest fans, actually, to be more precise, my only fans," smiled Bill, putting down the mystery novel he was reading during his downtime, pushing himself off his bunk, and walking over to relieve the Hogwarts owl, who was shrieking shrilly in an attempt to grab his attention, of its burden. The instant he spotted the handwriting he smirked, "I was right― it's from my younger brother Charlie. I knew Percy wouldn't descend to the level of dropping me a line when he could be reading or studying, and the terror twins wouldn't want to stop pulling pranks long enough to pen a letter." With that, he commenced reading Charlie's note:

_Dear Bill―_

_How are you? I'm assuming that your shameful lack of correspondence indicates that you're enjoying the land of the pharaohs so much that you've been too busy to write to your pesky little brother, not to mean that you've been killed in a highly unpleasant manner that will induce extreme jealousy on my part. If I'm right, don't feel apologetic (as if you would), because I've done the same thing to you. During the summer, I just got preoccupied with playing Quidditch with Fred and George, who could never replace you as my number one brother, never fear, and there was just no time to put pen to paper to scribble a note to you. _

_Anyway, you bid me to keep you apprised of the going-ons at Hogwarts, especially the doings of the dreadful duo. I've decided to take you at your word, although you were probably jesting, because Fred and George's first day at Hogwarts is just to hilarious not to share with my big brother, even if he's hundred of miles away from me. To get to the point, Fred and George began their career at Hogwarts auspiciously by starting a food fight in the Great Hall, which ended up with many students, including yours truly, to be covered in applesauce and butter, a seriously revolting mix in case you're interested (And, yes, I showered afterward before reporting for classes.), and making McGonagall, who got a spot of raspberry jam on her emerald robes, to sweep down upon the pair of monsters affectionately known as Fred and George. After raging at them in Mum-like manner for the entirety of breakfast, a rather comical event in and of itself, she sentenced them each to two detentions, assuring them that she was going easy on them, because they were new, and might not be familiar with the strict rules of decorum that govern our prestigious institution. (Like they wouldn't be after you, Percy, and me all went through this fine school.) _

_Well, you know Fred and Goerge, unless you've forgotten them in Egypt as thoroughly as you've forgotten me. (Just joking, Bill, don't fret. I know you love me, even if I'm not first on your priority list, just as I love you, even when you aren't first in my priority list. Sounds weird, but it makes sense, sort of.) Anyway, such an awesome act, if you're a terror twin, demands an encore. They provided such a follow-up adter second period, when they dropped Dungbombs in the Transfiguration corridor. When McGonagall caught them, she gave them four detentions apiece, and, from what Fred and George told me in the common room later, swore she's write to Mum and Dad about their disgraceful conduct. (McGonagall's description, by the way, not mine, or Fred and George's.) I'm feeling a tad sorry for them, actually, as Mum will probably send them a howler, when she reads McGonagall's angry update on the twins' behavior. _

_I've got to go, because Percy, who apparently had only just heard about Fred and George's escapade in the Transfiguration corridor, is shouting himself hoarse at them, and they look like they're about to burn his Potions homework to cinders. Anyway, this seems like too much fun to miss, so I'm going to end this letter now. _

_Love always, _

_Char_

As he red about the mayhem the dreadful duo had created on their very first day in attendance at Hogwarts, Bill burst out laughing, even as he shook his head in, thinking that only Fred and George would have the requisite insanity to act up like this on their first day of school. Ah, well, at lest they'll be popular, because they're hysterical and rebellious, although they'll never win very many points for Gryffindor.

"Something funny, Weasley?" Monsieur Louis asked, looking up from the French magazine he was reading on his bunk. "Care to share it?"

"It's my twin brothers," Bill informed him when he could breathe well enough to choke out the necessary words to express this thought.

"I thought you said the letter was from your brother Charlie, not from the twins," frowned Louis, clearly bewildered, and most likely thinking that he had finally memorized Bill's relations, only to learn that he had not.

"That's right. Charlie was writing the note, but he was talking about Fred and George," explained Bill, as he offered Errol, who seemed on the verge of collapse, water from Nekhebet's metal dish, an action which elicited a glare from Nekhebet.

"Quite the gossiping pigeons, aren't you?" Louis sneered.

"With family it's termed as caring, and, anyhow, Fred and George won't mind. In fact, they like being spoken about, and the enjoy knowing that people have learned about their pranks, which was what Charlie was telling me about."

"So what was the prank? Don't keep me waiting, Weasley, for patience was never my best virtue, as if I have any."

"Funny, patience was always one of my greatest virtues," Bill grinned, "and I've heard it can be improved by practice, Monsieur Louis." When his teacher glared at him menacingly, he added, "Anyway, Fred and George chose to commence their Hogwarts education with a resounding gang in more ways than one. At breakfast, they started a food fight in the Great Hall, earning themselves each two detentions from Professor McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor House. Then, they set off Dungbombs in the Transfiguration corridor, garnering them each four more detentions and letter home to Mum and Dad."

Monsieur Luis chortled. "Poor little devils."

"I don't think the terrible twins would like to be pitied, and, don't worry, in their entire lives, neither one of them has done anything to render them worthy of mercy," Bill smiled.

"What'll your parents do to them?" Louis raised both his eyebrows.

"Dad will probably laugh, though he will shut up in record time once Mum glares at him, and the he will shrug his shoulders and shake his head, and accept the fact that not all his sons can be as wonderful as me. It's Mum that they need to worry about. She will have a nice Howler to scorch their ears for them tomorrow at breakfast, I've no doubt." As he established as much, Bill frowned thoughtfully, and amended, "Hmm. Maybe they do deserve pity. It's got to be humiliating having your mum scold you in front of the whole school, at like ten times her normal volume, which, trust me, is loud enough. Well, I can't pretend that they don't deserve it, and I can't say I'm upset not to be Head Boy during their first year. There's a fate worse than death. Odds on that the dreadful duo won't listen to a word the Head Boy, Head Girl, or any of the prefects say all year, much to Percy's and Mum's aggravation, I'm sure."

"Don't mention gambling in front of the goblins," teased Louis. "They'll only tell you that it's a foolish waste of gold, as it's intentionally set at a variable-ratio schedule to get you addicted to it, but ensure that you rarely win, and, apparently, psychology, at least human psychology, confirms this assertion."

"I don't gamble," Bill scowled at him. "It's an expression."

"You think I don't know that?" Louis arched one eyebrow testily.

"You are French, not English." Bill's shoulders heaved up and down in a lackadaisical shrug.

"Something I praise God for everyday, I promise you," retorted Louis.

The departure of the school owl, who had tired of waiting for a reply, reminded Bill that he had yet to read the note Errol had deposited unceremoniously upon his bunk. He walked back over to his bed, sat down, and read in Ginny's barely legible seven-year-old scrawl:

**Dear Bill,**

**I'm sorry I yelled at you when we said bye-bye. Mummy told me when I cried about it later that you were not mad at me. I thought I better say sorry anyway. And I think you were mad at me, even if Mum said you were not, because you didn't write to me, like you promised you would, Bill. **

**I am sorry that I did not write for a long time. I was too busy having fun at the Burrow. But now Fred and George are gone. I thought I would be happy when they left me, because then they would not be able to tease me and pull out my hair that Mum makes me grow long. But I am sad without them. I miss them very much. I miss you too. The Burrow is lonely with only me, Ron, Dad, and Mum. Ron just isn't as much fun as Fred and George are. He is not as funny, but he is less of a bully. I wrote to you because I am bored. I want you to write to me so I won't be bored. **

**Write to me soon, **

**Love, **

**Ginny**

Beaming at the seven-year-old syntax, Bill grabbed tow scrolls of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill from his nightstand and went out to the kitchen table to compose responses to the pieces of correspondence he had had just been the recipient of. First, he decided he would reply to his sister, because, after all, she did not have Charlie's maturity or patience, and she was obviously lonesome, something Charlie with all his hordes of friends, and his steady girlfriend Tonks, at Hogwarts would not be. As such, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and scribbled:

_**Dearest Ginny: **_

_**I know that you didn't mean to hurt my feeling when you yelled at me, lioness. You just loved me so much that you never wanted me to leave you. To tell the truth, it is flattering to be loved so much by my little sister. Mum was right when she informed you that I was not mad at you, tigress. (Mum is a very intelligent woman, and we should give her more credit.) In fact, I told her before I left for Egypt to explain to you that I wasn't angry about your shouting at me. I'm sorry that I didn't write for so long, leading you to believe that I was angry at you. I wasn't. I was just busy with the pyramids. Someday I hope you will be able to see the amazing mosaics in the impressive pyramids and the lovely gold and riches, which words alone cannot describe with your own eyes. **_

_**Don't feel bad about not writing to me for awhile, either, because I'm happy that you were having fun with your brothers at the Burrow. It's a shame that you find the Burrow lonely, and miss Fred and George. Hopefully, once you and Ron get used to the emptiness of the Burrow, you'll like it, and I'm sure that you and Ron, who have always been such great playmates, will have loads of fun together, like Charlie and I did when we were little before the rest of you bundles of joy joined us. Anyway, don't worry. Christmas will come soon enough, and the dreadful duo will return to the Burrow and engulf it in chaos once more. Write to me as often as you want, Ginny-girl, and I'll reply as soon as possible. **_

_**Love always from your big brother, **_

_**Bill**_

Satisfied with that, he rolled up the piece of parchment, and pulled out the other scroll. Unrolling it and sticking his quill in the inkwell, Bill started to compose a response to Charlie's letter:

_**Dear Char, **_

_**I'm doing very well now that I have adapted to Egypt, learned some Gobbledegook, and gotten used to the ways of my desert companions, so you have interpreted my silence correctly, as I rightly assumed that your absence of letters was due to your having fun without me, not having been killed by a Bludger. I'm glad you got in some decent Quidditch practice before the start of term. As always, I wish you and your team victory and luck. It's always reassuring to hear that Fred and George could never usurp me in your heart, as they could never usurp you in my affections. As I said to Ginny, I'm sorry I didn't write for awhile, but I've been very busy, so it doesn't indicate that I don't care about you anymore.**_

_**Thanks for the update on the dreadful duo's first day at school. I'm sure it will go on eternally in Hogwarts lore. Yet two more Weasleys leaving their impressions upon the school. I've no doubt that Mum's Howler will also leave an impression, in the form of a massive hole in the Great Hall. Fortunately, it may not be noticed due to the fact that the ceiling is bewitched to look exactly like the sky. I do wish I had been there to witness the food fight, as I have never seen anything like it occur during my seven years at the place, although I think I could pass on the Dungbombs display in the Transfiguration corridor, which I imagine smelled terrible all day long, rather like that time Carver dropped rotten milk in one of the stairwells. I'm sure that McGonagall's lectures were priceless, as they always are when they're not directed at you. (When they're directed at you, you wish that you could Disapparate, and that Hogwarts grounds permitted you to do so.) I must confess, though, that I'm delighted to be out of the school before the terror twins arrived, because I couldn't imagine the ordeal of trying to discipline them. It's funny how being Head Boy of Hogwarts was a thousand times easier than being the big brother of Fred and George, although I'm sure it gave me some awesome lessons in leadership and responsibility. **_

_**Tell the terror twins I hope they have to disembowel rats for Snape in their detentions as they deserve a smelly punishment to fit the stinky Dungbomb crime. (Just joking, I'm not that evil.) Do tell them that I'm sorry for any Howlers that they receive from Mum, as that is something so humiliating that even they don't deserve it. By the way, don't hesitate to advise them that they could replace Snape's shampoo, if he uses anyway, with a Balding Solution, or a potion that would cause it to light on fire, as long as you give credit to me, Charlie. Feel free to inform me of any especially hysterical practical jokes they crack, because hearing them will make me and Monsieur Louis laugh, something that is certainly a benefit to that jaded, cynical old man. Oh, and remind Percy to lay off with the lecturing of Fred and George, although I'm certain it is valuable common room entertainment, because it won't do any good, and some people might go deaf as a result. **_

_**As for you're closing, I'm very cross at you, Charles Septimus Weasley. How could you possibly leave me hanging like that? I mean, I understand wanting to watch the show, but you could have gone to the immense bother of adding the final details, in a postscript if necessary. Did Fred and George manage to burn Percy's Potions homework to ashes, or did he get it back in time? If the terror twins were successful, did Percy restore his homework with his wand, or did he just do it all over again? (I refuse to even consider the possibility that Percy would not turn in his work, or that the dreadful duo would feel remorse for their actions, and offer to do it for him.) Inquiring minds want to know all the details, Charlie, so don't keep us waiting. (Yes, I've taken to referring to myself in the first person plural, as it sounds more distinguished. You can give Perce that tip, too, if you even speak with him anymore. I am aware that Perce spends a majority of his existence with his nose buried in homework or a book.) **_

_**Egypt's great. I wish that you could see some of these amazing pyramids, mosaics, and treasures for yourself one day, by the way, because words fail to describe them, as do pictures. The climate is fine once you get used to it, and the sun is doing me a major favor, because it might be giving me a more pronounced tan than what you get. When you work with dragons, the burns you attain from the beasts don't count as tans, because they are burns. **_

_**Wishing you the best, **_

_**Your loving older brother, **_

_**Bill**_

After he had completed this letter, he folded it up, as he had done with Ginny's, and walked back into his bedroom to hand them over to Nekhebet to deliver to his devoted siblings.


	34. Chapter 34

A Curse-Breaker at Last

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Author's Note: Sorry it took me a while to update, everyone, but you can actually put the blame on my (insert your favorite applicable adjective here) computer. I had typed up a possibly lovely new chapter on a disk, and then, for some reason, after saving itself to the disk, I cannot access the chapter, so I had to rewrite it all from memory. Hopefully, this does not stink totally.

A few days later, Nekhebet returned bearing a note from Charlie in her beak. After feeding his owl and offering her a handful of treats, which she accepted gladly, Bill read his brother's scrawl:

_Dear Bill, _

_It was a pleasure hearing from you again, although I must establish that I was miffed at your closing. For your information, I have other things, between Quidditch practice, schoolwork― sixth year is one nightmare of a year even more than the fifth was― and Tonks and my friends besides write to my ungrateful brother, namely you, and I never insert postscripts, as I loathe them. _

_Anyway, to answer your nosy inquiries, Percy's homework was rescued from it's imminent demise at the hands of the dreadful duo by some fifth-year prefect, who took the annual anti-bullying sermon given in the prefect carriage seriously, even if the aforementioned "bullying" was being inflicted on a third-year by two first-years, and Summoned Percy's homework over to him. After thanking the prefect in his most pompous manner, Perce retired to his dormitory in a huff of righteous indignation, declaring loudly that he required sleep to continue his stellar academic performance. (His words, by the way, not mine, in case you're interested in quoting them to somebody in the middle of your desert.)_

_As for Fred and George, they accept your condolence for the Howler they received from Mum. I've no doubt that you'll go into spasms of delight when you learn that the ceiling of the Great Hall did not cave under the assaults of Mum's shouts, although if we give the terror twins another year or two, I am certain that the ceiling will eventually collapse in exhaustion from these never-ceasing attacks. For detention, the dreadful duo initially were sentenced to helping Snape pour the foulest-smelling potions as yet known to mankind into flagons and shoving corks down them. However, you will be pleased to hear that they made the executive decision of taking your shampoo suggestion seriously, and replaced his hair-care solution with a fire-inducing one. The next day, a half-bald Snape prowled about terrifying the student body even more than usual. (This, I should add in case you are only have paying attention as you read this, is after half of them went into cardiac arrest, deluging Madam Promfery in the hospital wing, when they discovered that Severus Snape not only bathes, but actually employs shampoo for that mop of grease he terms as hair.) Unfortunately for Fred and George, when McGonagall got wind of the terror twins' little experiment, she altered their punishment, most likely because no teacher wants to approach them now. Now they have to clean every inch of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom with toothbrushes. They are not permitted to use magic, and Filch and the awful Mrs. Norris will be hovering over them the whole time. I could almost sympathize with their situation, in fact. _

_School is going well enough. Quidditch is not going as well as I would like, and, to be frank, it appears that I will have to be out team's saving grace once again this year. (I'm not being arrogant, just honest.) I'd better go now. My free period is over, and it's dinner time, and Tonks is always angry when I'm late to meet her for out suppers together. If I'm lucky, and she's in a nice frame of mind, we can walk around the lake together, but only if I go now, so I won't be late, and provoke her wrath. _

_Your mostly affectionate brother, _

_Charlie_

Smiling at Percy's pomposity, the dreadful duo's antics, and Charlie's love life, Bill grabbed a scroll of parchment form his nightstand, a quill which he dipped in ink, and placed the parchment on a textbook, before plopping on his bunk, and scribbling:

_**Dear Charlie, **_

_**I'm delighted to learn that school is going well for you. Best of luck with Quidditch as always, Captain. I can't believe that you and Tonks are still together. Good luck with that relationship, too. I hope you had a charming "walk." **_

_**As for Percy, I suppose it's a good thing that a prefect intervened to save him the agony of recopying his Potions work. By the way, tell him from me that stellar students only need like four or five hours of sleep. The rest of the energy that sleep is rumored to bring can be created by a combination of coffee, butterbear, and other sugar and caffeine laced products. That's the reason why mums aren't allowed at Hogwarts, because students consume so much junk, and, sure, your body will probably send you a check that you don't want to pay in your forties, but who cares? At least you lived once. **_

_**Speaking of our lovely little siblings, tell the Gred and Forge monsters that I admire their audacity, and that the Snape prank is priceless, although they certainly paid for it. (I am equally confident that it also is of value to science, as it offers proof Snape utilizes some hair-care solutions, although, obviously they are not very effective ones.) Also, please inform them that it is your fault, Char, that they are doomed to deal with Myrtle and Filch while cleaning a restroom with toothbrushes, a fate worse than death, because you were meant to interpret my remark in the context in which it was intended. This of course implies that you were not supposed to share it with the dreadful duo, as they were bound to take my advice, because they never can resist a halfway decent practical joke. Gosh, sometimes I'm amazed you can breathe by yourself.  
**_

When he finished writing this, he gave Nekhebet the letter, and watched her sail away.

As the months flew by, Bill noticed that Monsieur Louis was permitting him more autonomy in the pyramids, allowing him to cast all the counter-curses, and decide the appropriate pathways, almost permitting him to take the lead in the tombs, something Bill greatly appreciated.

Before he was aware of it, it was July. One day early in that month, he, Monsieur Louis, Foulbreath, and Rottentooth entered a pyramid that resembled any other they had intruded upon the stale, sacred serenity of in the past twelve months. As generally occurred now, Louis stepped back, and let his pupil take the lead, and Bill, therefore, was the person who broke the antiquated enchantments, and the being who selected the route through which they journeyed. However, when they arrived at the end of the tomb, a bone of contention developed. Bill was utterly convinced that the left chamber housed the pharaoh, and his treasure, and the right chamber was the trick one, containing all sorts of atrocious hexes and monsters given the task of killing those who would plunder this place. On the other hand, Louis was just as implacable in his belief that the right chamber was the burial room, and the left one the fluke.

"Trust me, Monsieur Louis," Bill persisted, "I've just got a feeling about this, and my intuition is right more often than not."

"It's an excellent thing that you did not choose to become a Healer, as you would be informing patients that you suppose that a certain potion will serve as a remedy, but it is also possible that it will serve as a lethal poison," Louis shook his head in despair. "No, I'm afraid that it is you that must trust my judgment, as I've been doing this for considerably longer than you have. As such, it would be a brilliant idea for you to bow to my greater experience."

"Experience, ah that wonderful commodity that enables old men to declare a feat impossible, and then gape in astonishment as some young, spry whippersnapper accomplishes aforesaid impossible feat with outrageous ease," drawled Bill, smirking. When Louis scowled at him, not grateful for what he perceived as blatant insubordination, he demanded, "How am I ever going to get any of my own experience if you never let me test my convictions?"

As he folded his arms over his chest to indicate that he was not about to capitulate, he could hear the goblins behind him hissing to each other in rapid Gobbledegook. Obviously, they were not enjoying the battle of wills and wits that their human companions were engaged in.

For a moment, Bill was afraid that Louis would explode or implode, but in the end, he settled for commenting in an icy voice that probably brought down the temperature in the surrounding desert ten or twelve degrees, "Very well then, William Weasley, if you wish to learn the hard way, I shan't interfere with you. In fact, because I'm feeling especially charitable today, I'll even try my best to save your worthless life, although I can't make any promises."

"I'll go to the left, then," Bill determined firmly, his unwavering brown eyes fixated on his mentor, daring the older man to challenge his assertion.

"I'll go to the right." With that, Louis headed off toward the right entranceway, while Bill walked over to the left one, and the goblins, looking faintly bemused remained stationary.

After numbing a nasty spell that swore that whoever disturbed the pharaoh's must needed rest would be haunted for eternity by a pack of Inferi, Bill cast the alohomora charm on the lock, praying that his gut had not been deceiving him. Luckily, it had not been, for a mummy's golden sarcophagus was positioned in the center of the burial chamber, and chests of gems and precious metals glittered throughout the dim, dank room, every inch glistening with a treasure that Foulbreath and Rottentooth would love uncovering and holding.

It transpired that Monsieur Louis had not been so favored by fortune. A scream from the right assailed his ears, and he charged out of the chamber, in a rush to rescue the man who had once saved his own life. As he darted past the goblins, he snapped at them, "The chamber on the left is safe to enter and remove the riches from!"

As Louis' terrified shouts faded, a turn of events that did not soothe Bill's overactive nerves, he distinctly heard Foulbreath and Rottentooth mutter in their native tongue, "To work," and be rolled his eyes in a gesture of exasperation. When he glanced at the inscription above the doorway, which promised that the ghost of the pharaoh would plague whoever disturbed his slumber, and realized that it had been broken, he employed the alohomora charm to open the door, but he did not step inside. He did not need to. In fact, if he had, it would have been the death of him.

A sea of pythons writhed on the floor. One had squeezed itself about Louis in a grotesque parody of a caring embrace. For his part, Louis was doing his best to maintain his composure, as wizards were instructed to do in perilous circumstances such as this, although his wand had been squelched out of his hand, and his face was transforming into a massive blueberry, as he was asphyxiated by the serpent.

"Immobulous," mumbled Bill, pointing his wand at the gigantic, curling snake. Suddenly, it went limp, even though the coils around Louis remained fixed. With a further flick of his wand, Bill Vanished the python and its deadly companions.

Since he was familiar with Louis' abrasive personality, Bill had not been anticipating a grand thank-you speech or a warm hug, but a grudging acknowledgment of gratitude certainly would have been appropriate. However, this was not to be, for when the younger man knelt beside him to offer him water from his own thermos, Louis snarled, "Are you insane? What processed you to come after me?"

"If I am insane, you needn't worry," Bill replied, more than a little miffed, as he pulled back his water bottle, deciding that if the jaded Curse-Breaker wanted to rant at him, he could stop using Bill's blessed water supply, "as it was only a temporary insanity."

"Humph," grumbled the other, pushing himself upright with the aid of the sandstone wall of the tomb, "it always is that way when you save a life, you know."

"Just because you'll eventually die, that's no reason not to value your life," Bill reminded him coolly. Still more coldly, he added, "However, since you don't, I won't bother to rescue you in the future. I'll just go on and look at the treasure, like your friends, Foulbreath and Rottentooth did, if that's what you want. I aim to please." With that last bitter remark, he pivoted on his heel, and marched out of the chamber before Louis could answer.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis entered the tent he shared with Bill to see the younger man sitting at the kitchen table, sipping from a steaming mug of tea he apparently had just finished making for himself. As the older Curse-Breaker plopped down in the seat across from him, Bill scrutinized the spoon he was using to convey his tea from his cup to his mouth with far more interest than he would generally have displayed, determined not to acknowledge his co-worker unless absolutely necessary, which it was not at the moment.

In the end, it was Louis who shattered the awkward, taut silence that pervaded the tent's atmosphere. "Don't be cross at what you might perceive as the betrayal of the goblins. You must understand by now that they are a different breed of being than we are. As such, their definitions of repayment, friendship, loyalty, and betrayal are different from ours, although this by no means suggests that they are inferior."

"It's not them I'm angry at, thanks for your concern," Bill responded, his tone short, as he swallowed a spoonful of tea.

"You're mad at me, then, I gather," sighed Louis. There was quiet between the two men again, before he mumbled, "Well, you won't have to put up with me for much longer."

"I'm not going back to England any time in the near future, if that's what you're implying." Bill stiffened, feeling that his relationship with Louis was a dull circle full of the repetition of basic concepts, such as this one. Scratch that, especially this one.

"That's not what I meant," Louis answered. "What I was trying to say is that, you've been in Egypt a year now, so Gringotts considers you to be a full-fledged Curse-Breaker as of now. Therefore, you can work alone, if you so desire, or…" He trailed off, flushing.

"Or?" Bill's eyebrows arched.

"Or, well, some Curse-Breakers work in pairs, and, it can get lonesome in the desert sometimes without another human. I mean, the goblins are great, but they aren't like people, and they have no desire to be, just as we have no desire to be like goblins. What I'm trying to say is― if you wanted, you could work with me. I― I think we make a good team."

For a moment, Bill stared at him, and then he smiled. "I do, too, Monsieur Louis, and so I'll stay with you, even if you are a cynical old grouch."

"And you're an impudent optimist, who may now call me Louis." As he established as much, Louis held out his hand for Bill to shake.

Bill took it, and shook it firmly. Smiling, he returned, "Then you must start referring to me as Bill, it's what all my friends and family call me."

"Alright, then, Bill, what will it be: éclairs, truffles, tiramisu, or napoleons."

"You always ask the toughest questions, you know, Louis," Bill teased, frowning thoughtfully, before he declared, "Napoleons."


	35. Chapter 35

Dragons and Robberies

Disclaimer: No, my name is not J.K. Rowling, or at least it wasn't last time I checked with all my different personalities. If that changes, I'll let you know.

Reviews: Please take a few seconds to comment after reading. I appreciate feedback, and respond to all reviews.

Author's Note: Time may move quickly in this chapter, so I'm sorry about that. I hope you won't get too confused. If you do, tell me, and I will do my honest best to fix it. Sorry about the recent increase in the epistolary form, but just bear with me, please. I'll get out of it once Bill leaves Egypt, but letters are a swell way to keep him in the thick of things, and I don't feel like relinquishing that particular plot device yet.

After the episode in which Bill had saved Louis' life, and they became true partners, their days settled into a steady rhythm of traveling through the desert to attain riches from pyramids, and transferring them back to Gringotts headquarters in Cairo. Then, back into the tombs again. Fortunately, there were no more debates about which direction they would travel in when they worked in the deserted pyramids, because, when they wanted to go in opposite directions, they would make a point of discussing it rationally.

As he was isolated in the middle of a desert, Bill soon found that he became close to the only three beings that he had any real contact with in Egypt. He learned to enjoy playing goblin word and number games while they traversed the arid land on camel back. In the evenings, he often engaged in wizard chess or Exploding Snap tournaments with his fellow Curse-Breaker. When they were both too exhausted to play games together, they switched on the radio, or read novels and magazines, Louis in French, and Bill in English.

Since his life had settled into a pleasant harmony with a decent paycheck, which explained how Louis could afford the expenditure of fine champagne in the heart of the boiling Egyptian sands, Bill did not even fully realize that he had been a full-fledged Curse-Breaker for almost a year until a letter from Charlie arrived in early June, borne by a rather bedraggled Hogwarts owl, who plainly had not relished the laborious journey from England to Africa. After he removed the note from the owl's claws and offered it a few of Nekhebet's treats and a drink from her dish, two actions that sparked a jealous, possessive wail from Nekhebet in her cage, the owl soared away, returning Nekhebet's iron glare. Stroking Nekhebet to pacify her, he began to read Charlie's note:

_Dear Bill, _

_I hope you're having a better time in Egypt than I am in England. The only good news I can report is that I have been accepted to work at a dragon reserve in Romania. However, they expect me to commence working with them three days after I graduate. As such, I realized that I had to inform Mum and Dad of my career plans, and explain that I would not be pursuing a living in Quidditch, but rather in toiling at a dragon reserve sooner as opposed to later. This being the case, I composed a relatively polite letter to them explaining my career choice, and giving them the date of my departure to Romania. Admittedly, I, like you, probably should have confided in them sooner, but, even good Gryffindors like us, have a right to fear the fiery response of our loving and charming Mum. Okay, I mean, I recognized that my announcement would not be greeted with resounding whoops from our parents, and I did expect an angry owl full of shock, informing me that I was a stupid, impulsive, and deceitful boy. However, I was not anticipating what I received, and I seriously don't think I deserve it. (If you dare contradict me on this, I shall find a manner to sock you in the mouth from here, brother.) _

_What did I get, you ask? Well, the morning after I wrote to Mum and Dad about my future job, I was honored to be the recipient of a Howler from Mum. Can you believe it? She had the nerve to transform a private matter, like my job decision, into a public gossip concern that has been strung all over the cursed grapevine for all to eat their fill of. Heavens, Bill, it was awful having her rant about how I was being an idiot to pursue a career path the would lead me into peril, and, unlike professional Quidditch, would not offer extensive monetary compensation for aforementioned risks. Furthermore, she shrieked that I was a filthy liar, because I had remained silent, knowing that my silence would be taken as confirmation that I was going to be a Seeker for England. According to Mum, a lie of omission is still a lie. (Those are her words, in case you didn't figure it out. See, my own mum is convinced I'm as dumb as a doorknob. Of course a lie is a lie, and the truth is the truth. Glad we got that straight, and now the whole school and the entirety of Hogsmeade knows as well, thanks to Mum.) Whatever Mum says on the contrary I did not deserve public humiliation. It's not like I blew up a corridor or something, and I'm legally an adult now, besides. _

_The Howler made McGonagall realize that I had not chatted with Mum and/or Dad about my adult life in the work force. This revelation prompted her to detain me after Transfiguration, something which made me late for lunch, adding to the splendor of my day. As soon as everyone else had skipped merrily off to get the best slices of ham and baked potatoes, she snapped at me, "You told me that you had talked to your family about your career choice, Weasley!" (Incidentally, in case you actually read the rubbish I insert in parenthesis during your free-time, which may not exist, she's not too thrilled that I'm not going into International Quidditch, either. I bet she perceives it as a personal failing that she cannot convince me that I ought to employ my talent on the International Quidditch pitch for the greater glory of Britain.) _

_I told her that I hadn't been lying, because I had discussed it with a family member― namely, you. I guess I was misguided in my assumption that she liked you as much as McGonagall can be fond of anyone, which basically she doesn't dream of strangling them, as she snarled that you don't really count as a career adviser. (Don't feel badly, I think you're awesome, mostly. You may now deflate your head again. The compliments end now.) She then added that you were not my parent, as if I hadn't figured out who my father was by now, which is just proof that she is as certain as Mum that you can't be a good athlete and have a normal amount of stuff between the ears._

_I took it upon myself to remind her that you are very responsible and very intelligent, like a cooler Percy, who has figured out how to make friends and not make people want to hang you off the nearest rafter. (Oops, I lied when I said that the compliments were at an end. Well, apparently I'm a compulsive liar, so that might explain it.) Besides, I contended, you're legally an adult now, as I am, which means that I have a freedom to pursue whichever career I want. Apparently, she could not contest this, since you have been functioning on your own in Egypt for the past almost-two years, and my Hogwarts life, like yours, is almost over. That is, I've already taken my N.E.W.T's, and attained the scores necessary to work with dragons in a Romanian reserve, so I'm basically just doing nothing, waiting to depart, a rather heart-wrenching state of being, actually. _

_By the way, Quiddtich season is over. We didn't win the Cup, obviously. In part, this was due to the fact that we have a very young team this year: Oliver Wood, the eldest save yours truly, a fourth-year, Keeper, Angelina Johnson, second-year, Chaser, Alicia Spinnet, second-year, Chaser, and the terror twins, and you know how old they are and what position they play. Please don't share this with Fred and George, in case you've been covertly corresponding with them. They feel bad enough already, and they are decent enough Beaters, considering they're only in their second year. (Not everyone can be as incredible as me.) Even Wood's pre-game pep talk wasn't enough to hearten us before the last match, in which, you will be delighted to hear, that we were slaughtered out of this world by the blasted Slytherins. (On a side note, in case you are really bored and want to read all my crazy musings, which you probably don't, you can tell why Perce and Wood are buds― they're both really long-winded, and thirsty for glory. Wood's more focused on winning than I am, and I'm the Captain. He also is sure that I have been hit on the head with too many textbooks since I've selected to work with dragons, rather than becoming a professional International Quidditch player. Percy agrees, for he insists that I'm refusing an opportunity for fame and fortune, but I never gave a hoot about all that. Pretend friends are no fun, and that's all money and fame but you.) Anyway, enough about the sucky last Quidditch match. I don't want to get even more depressed and jump out of the Gryffindor Tower or something equally stupid, but dramatic that would earn me a place of notoriety in Hogwarts legends. _

_My relationship with Tonks, in case you're wondering, is not likely to cheer me, or else I might be out kissing her, not writing to you. (No offense, but you're not a girl. I should get paid a penny for thoughts like that, because then you could get back change.) In fact, there is no more relationship between us anymore. When she learned that I was leaving to work for dragons in Romania, she had a swell time yelling at me in a crowded Charms corridor. At least, I hope she had an awesome time, because, if she didn't, then neither of us did, and she would have wasted a ton of energy, changing her hair and skin like twenty times. After screaming at me for awhile, she dumped me in front of a horde of interested teenagers, and ruled that she wants nothing to do with me, if I'm going to abandon her (Yes, abandon her. Apparently, we've been married without my knowledge or something) like this without discussing it with her first. Geez, I should be hosting a party in the common room now that she won't bother me anymore about my leaving, because she sounded just like a younger Mum when she was reprehending me. Yet, I can't do that, as dumb as it sounds. I miss her too much. We've been together since the fourth-year, you remember. I mean, yeah, we probably wouldn't have endured the separation, but it wouldn't have to end like this, in a smoking heap of wails and hurt feelings. It could have just been a peaceful, painless, gradual removal of affections. Oh well, if she wants to have us hate each others innards until the Judgment Day, that's her prerogative. There will be pretty girls aplenty in Romania, and they'll probably find a buff redhead a lovely exotic thing. _

_Enough about my love life, or current lack thereof. Some halfway decent things have happened to me today, when I struggle to find them in my memory banks. Dad sent Errol to me with an apology for the morning wake-up Howler. Apparently, he was not complicit in that part of my public humiliation, which means that I might talk to him before I flee the country. (I have no intention of speaking to Mum ever again.) Still, he isn't too thrilled with me at the moment. He says that he respects my right to do what I want with my life, and all that, but he wishes that I had shared my plans with him and Mum. At that point, he dragged you into the letter. Said he couldn't understand why neither of his eldest sons confided in their parents at this crucial juncture. (Hmm. Maybe because we were petrified of being killed by Mum, which seems to be a perfectly rational fear, as I nearly died of embarrassment when I received that Howler.) _

_Anyway, I hope Egypt is still cool, which, now that I think about it, is impossible, since it's a desert. Sorry I vented so much, but I just thought that you would comprehend better than Matt and Dan, as you have been there with the whole-going-to-Egypt-to-be-a-Curse-Breaker affair. You've already provided some condolence by the fact that you survived the Mount Mum eruption, and that you may have read this letter in its entirety. Still, I would appreciate a note full of sympathy and advice if you have the time and energy, Bill. _

_Love always from pitiful me, _

_Charlie_

Sighing, because he was going to be in for a long haul, having to reply to such a lengthy letter, Bill snatched up a particularly massive scroll of parchment, a sharpened quill, and a full ink bottle. Then he took the writing implements and Charlie's note into the kitchen, where Louis was preparing crepes, and plopped down at the table. Once he had settled himself comfortably there, he began to compose a response:

_**Dear Charlie,**_

_**I'm so sorry to learn that you had an awful day. I know it sounds all lame, cliché, and cheesy, but things will work out in the end. I mean, they did for me. I hope that everything looked just a little brighter in the morning, because sometimes they do you know. (Sometimes they don't, though, because you feel like you have a million one things you have to do.) **_

_**I'm glad to hear that you're able to work with dragons in Romania. I'm certain that you will enjoy it as much as I do Egypt. It's a pity Mum overreacted, and sent you a Howler. (By the way, I agree with you, Char, you didn't deserve that. That was a truly low blow that should only be reserved for real emergencies, like what Fred and George do every week.) I confess that I had hoped that she would have learned to handle it better after going through it with me. These are the kinds of sacrifices that the older children must make, I guess. We must teach our parents how to let us go, so they can be professionals at it by the time Ron and Ginny roll around. All I can say is that Mum will come to terms with your decision, as she did with mine. In fact, she might even regret driving you off with that horrible Howler. Try talking to her before you leave, because then any rift that develops cannot, in all fairness, be ascribed to you.**_

_**It's a pity McGonagall gave you a hard time, too. Sure, you might have done well to tell your parents, but there was a good reason not to, as the Howler demonstrated, I think. To be honest, you would not want to receive a Howler like that everyday. Besides, it's not a crime to keep your most important decisions under your control, for I did that for longer than you did, until early July, and I still am utterly convinced that I conducted myself appropriately, as Mum's reaction was nothing short of ear-shattering. However, her opinion doesn't really matter all that much, since you'll be out of Hogwarts soon, and safely trapped in Romania with deadly dragons. **_

_**Too bad that the Quidditch team stank this year, but, seriously, Char, it's not your fault. Even the best players, like you, require an adequate team to back them up, and they are young, which explains your unfortunate loss to Slytherin.**_

_**As for Tonks, it's a shame that your relationship ended like that, but are you sure that you really can't make up at all, or anything. I mean, she overreacted, but you could have spoken to her earlier about your plans. After all, I told Heather, Jennifer, and Steph, my former girlfriends, about my Curse-Breaker goal, so it wouldn't be a surprise to them, not that we've kept in touch that well. (Neither have I written to Chris or Mike, or received many letters from them in a while.) Maybe you can talk to her before you leave, too, but you might not be able to correspond as much as you hope, because, after all, I have only managed to exchange regular letters with you, and I'm confident that you will face similar hurdles when you go to Romania. **_

_**I'm glad Dad tried to smooth things over. You should definitely speak with him, Char, because he'll probably just want you to promise that you won't sever all ties with your family, as that's all he asked of me. I do feel a little remorseful for not confiding in him, but he would have told Mum, and I would have been murdered before I could go to Egypt and fulfill my Curse-Breaking dream. **_

_**I don't mind the venting, as that's all you've ever used me for. (Just joking, Charlie. I know you enjoyed practicing Quidditch moves on me, too, and begging things off me.) Also, I was more than happy to provide, and shall be sending a bill along with this letter…feel free to use me for all your psychological needs, for you'll find I'm far cheaper than my competitors. Please fill me in on how everything ends up, and I expect to hear about some of your dragon adventures when you arrive in Romania. **_

_**Best of luck,**_

_**Bill **_

To Bill's relief, everything did work out for Charlie, as it had managed to do for him. For in the dying days of June, Bill received another letter from his sibling, this time in the middle of the day, when he was traveling through the desert with Louis, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath. Telling the others to continue their goblin word game without him, he opened the seal on Charlie's card, and, feeling immensely appreciative of the fact that his camel required little guidance, and he was experienced enough to ride it with only one hand:

_Dear Bill,_

_I apologize for the gloomy tone that engulfed the last letter. You'll be happy to hear that almost everything worked out alright in the end. Dad got Mum to apologize for embarrassing me with her Howler, and I agreed not to sever all connections with them, as if I had been planning to do that before I was honored to receive a Howler. As for Tonks, well, she didn't want to talk to me, and I decided not to push my presence upon her, but sometimes people do have to separate, so I'm fine now. Besides, I still have Matt and Dan, who will be my friends forever. _

_I've just arrived in Romania two days ago, and I'm having the time of my life. I was delighted to find that I'm not the only one with a nearly (nearly, mind you) unhealthy obsession with all things dragonish. There are many people here at the reserve who share my love of these magnificent creatures, and I reckon I'm becoming close friends with several of the new recruits. Believe it or not, we are a cheery lot, and in some ways its like being at Hogwarts without all the classes, and with more Hogsmeade visits. (By the way, there is an awesome pub that we frequent that's not far from the reserve.) _

_At the reserve we have several Antipodean Opaleyes, who are really quite gorgeous their glittering pearly scales, although they regularly try to swallow us, but we don't mind. We know that they don't really mean any harm. They were just brought up that way, and they can't help the fact that we're so much smaller than them, and look yummy. However, they settle down mostly once we feed them sheep, because sheep is their favorite dish. (I can't blame them for that either, as I've always been a fan of lamb chops.)_

_We also have six Chinese Fireballs, which are able to be kept in the same pen, as they are more tolerant of each other. To make up for this agreeable trait, they are tremendously fond of humans, and will go to great lengths to try to roast us for dinner. Still, if we distract them with pigs and other large mammals, we come out safely, save for a few scratches and burns. _

_We have fifteen Common Welsh Greens at the reserve, and they are no trouble whatsoever. In fact, they generally avoid us, and don't really make any attempts to attack us when we come into their pens to give them their evening sheep. As a Brit, you will be delighted to hear that we have the other British dragon, the Hebridean Black, in our possession, although we only have five of them, because we can only afford to provide them with so many cattle, or else Muggles will wonder why we need so much beef. _

_We have one Hungarian Horntail, who we must deal with in groups of at least five or six, because it is really, really aggressive, and wants nothing more than to eat every human on the planet. Of course, since we're in Romania, we have a considerable amount of Romanian Longhorns, which we are trying to breed, because their numbers are rapidly decreasing due to the trade of their horns. We also have several Swedish Short Snouts and Ukrainian Ironbellies, whom we are conducting extensive research upon._

_Anyway, I am finding it truly exciting to be around so many of these magnificent creatures, and to be around people that share my passion. I hope that you are uncovering loads of treasure, and developing a tan that is almost as wonderful as mine._

_Your not yet burned to cinders brother,_

_Charlie_

Smiling, Bill tucked the note into the pocket of his robe, and made a mental note to respond that evening while Louis made some French food.

For months, the boys corresponded through their letters, keeping each other updated on their latest escapades with mummies and dragons. In August, Bill received a note from an unusual correspondent borne in the beak of an owl he had never seen before. One glance at the neat, perfectly proportioned handwriting informed Bill that the letter was from Percy. Wondering vaguely what on earth could have sparked this sign of affection from his haughty sibling, Bill read:

Dear Bill,

I hope that your endeavors in Egypt have been met with nothing, but wealth and success. It is with great chagrin that I now inform you that I understand your unusual career selection, because I have recently read that Curse-Breakers are very well paid, which of course, means that they are very successful. Still, I am utterly convinced that the Ministry is my best paved path to fame and fortune, but I respect your right to choose your own. I still cannot reconcile myself to Charlie's decision to deal with the menaces of dragons, rather than pursue a career in International Quidditch. After all, although I find flying and sports to be completely abhorrent, a majority of the world's population does not share my conviction, so Charlie could have been very famous and successful in just a few short years. Anyway, enough about Charlie's choice, as what is done is done, and cannot be undone, except perhaps by Charlie. Speaking of which, you could, if you were so inclined, drop him a line about reconsidering his job decision next time you write him.

As for me, I have no doubt you will be pleased to learn that I have followed in your capable footsteps and been made a prefect. I sincerely hope to be made Head Boy in two years time, just as you were. I am confident that I can be as successful as you were in these enterprises. Rest assured, Bill, that, rebellious hair style notwithstanding, you were a very talented Head Boy, as most people had nothing but respect for you. While we are discussing your hair, may I be so bold as to suggest that you cut it, if you have not already done so? If you have already done so, forgive me, for I have not seen your picture in a while. Mum saw me write that, because I am writing this epistle at the family table, and she asks that I forward her request that you do the same thing.

As a reward for being made a prefect, I have received Hermes, named, obviously, for the Greek messenger god, who is, of course, the lovely owl that gave you this note. I have no doubt that he will got along well with Nekhebet, as they were both honored with names from the mythology of very advanced early civilizations that modern society owes a great deal to. My being made prefect will undoubtedly serve to curtail some of Fred and George's antics, as I have experience in dealing with our rambunctious brothers. I am hoping that if I can succeed in controlling them, a Head Boy badge will be in the making for me. Of course, the fact that I am a prefect will benefit Ron in that he will have someone older and respectable to turn to for able guidance, which I shall be more than happy to provide him with. However, it also means that he will be left in the hands of Fred and George on the train ride. I shall have to instruct them sternly to be helpful and nice with Ron, as it is my duty as a brother and prefect.

By the way, if you are writing to Charlie, you can inform him that Oliver Wood has replaced him as Quidditch Captain. I am more than satisfied with his appointment, even if he is not of Charlie's caliber, though this is not intended as an insult, since few wizards can rival Charlie's skill on a broomstick.

Hoping you are as well-off as I am,

Your prefect brother,

Percy

This letter, loaded with words that only Percy would employ in casual correspondence nearly made him choke on the croissant he was eating for lunch. Rolling his eyes, he wondered how on earth he could safely respond to this one. In the end, he settled for congratulating Percy on his present and new prefect badge, and wishing him well in the year to come. Then he apologized for the seeming curtness of the letter, stating that he had to cook dinner and was really tired after a long day in the tombs, which was a lie, as yes, he was exhausted, but he could have written a longer letter, as he did to Charlie, and he certainly did not have to cook supper, as Louis always insisted on handling meals.

Two days after this, when they returned to Cairo, Bill received a troubling piece of information. When the goblins dropped off the treasures looted from a pharaoh's pyramid, they returned from this endeavor, scowling.

"What's troubling you?" Louis inquired in Gobbledegook.

"Everything," growled Foulbreath, still in his native tongue and Rottentooth offered a grim nod of agreement.

"Well, glad we could clear that up," Bill replied in the goblin language. "You know, when you talk about problems like that, it's much easier to resolve them."

"For your information, there has been a break-in at the Gringotts branch in London," Rottentooth snarled.

"What?" demanded Bill and Louis simultaneously, gaping like halfwits at the goblin who provided such a revelation.

"You heard me," Rottentooth answered testily, "someone managed to break-in at our branch in London. What's even more awful is that it was a high security vault, which means that we're definitely going to have to increase our security globally. After all, we don't want anyone to believe that our security is in anyway subpar."

"Was anything stolen?" frowned Louis, his forehead furrowing.

"No." Foulbreath shook his head, as they drove their camels off into the desert. "The vault in question was actually emptied before the break-in, thank heavens, otherwise we might have to pay the owner, which would be a waste of valuable work and treasure."

When September began, Bill realized with a pang that he no longer was aware of what was occurring at his alma mater. Charlie was the one that had filled him in on everything, and know he was off with dragons in Romania, providing Bill with detailed descriptions of dragons eggs and scales and feeding habits. Still, he missed hearing about the exploits of the team and the latest gossip. It seemed that none of his other siblings thought about him much. Fred and George certainly never deigned to update him on their pranks, and Percy, after that last pompous notice, did not write again. In fact, the only letters he received from England were from his parents, who wrote monthly, and Ginny, whose writing quality was slowly improving. With Ron's absence at the Burrow, she scribbled more to him, telling him about her blooming Quidditch abilities, and filling him in on all the games she had devised to attempt to keep boredom at bay without her playmate.

For his birthday in November, he received a homemade card and a box of Deluxe Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans from Ginny, a sun-repellent potion from his parents that Bill suspected his mum had purchased, a book that he actually was surprised to discover he enjoyed on ancient Egyptian curses from Percy, an Eye of Horus from Louis, who refused to tell Bill when his own birthday was, and dragon-hide boots from Charlie. The boots, Charlie insisted, had been made of hide from an already dead dragon, so no dragon had suffered for his fashion, something that Bill had not been too concerned about anyway.

In early April, his assumption that Ron had been living a quiet life at Hogwarts was shattered when Charlie sent him the following letter:

_Dear Bill,_

_Guess who I just got a letter from? I'll tell you, because you probably would never guess it. Ron! Hah, he likes me better than you. Actually, he doesn't, to be totally honest. He just needed me, and since I'm a halfway decent older brother I agreed to be of service. Apparently, he's become friends with Hagrid as well. (I can feel your exasperated sigh from here.) Somehow Hagrid has managed to get his hands on a Norwegian Ridgeback, which reminds me of that time he attained those chimera eggs, and Ron asked me if I would be interested in taking it. Of course, I said that I would be, and told him to meet my friends, who would pick it up, on May the seventh at midnight on top of the Astronomy Tower. I am aware that you, as a former Head Boy, cannot condone rule-breaking, but I don't think we can accomplish it otherwise, since I don't want to get Hagrid busted for having an illegal dragon in his tender care, and Ron doesn't either. The odds of them getting cut aren't that great, anyway. I mean, everyone on midnight patrol falls asleep, and there is no need for them to contact Dumbledore since the dragon is already arranged to be moved to the appropriate facility. Damn it, I've got to go and subdue that Hungarian Horntail, because the rest of my co-workers are about to be reduced to ashes. _

_Your harried sibling,_

_Charlie _

Smiling at the melee that two of his younger brothers had concocted for themselves again, Bill wrote a letter commanding Charlie to tell him how the scheme worked out. He was rewarded on May the ninth when the following note appeared in the care of an owl from the dragon reserve:

_Bill―_

_You requested that I write you to tell you how the evacuation of the Ridgeback went. Well, you'll be pleased to learn that the Ridgeback arrived without incident, and we've just managed to get him into his own pen. I am excited to do some research on him, but first I have to help Kenny, Steve, and Chad resolve that dispute between the Horntail and the Fireball, and then I have to put some salve on my latest burn. _

_Your slightly burnt brother,_

_Charlie_

After that, he heard about no more incidences in Ron's first year at school until Percy wrote to him to tell him that Gryffindor had won the House Cup, something that clearly sparked Perce's excitement, because his handwriting was not as perfect as always.

Dear Bill,

I am pleased to inform you that Gryffindor has finally won the House Cup again. In part, we owe this victory to Ron. We also are appreciative to Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and, surprisingly enough, Neville Longbottom, who is a clumsy individual who is not gifted in the brain department. Ron and his best friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, managed to accomplish some sort of highly secret plan that somehow entailed an evil Quirrell and seems to have a relationship with You-Know-Who. I regret to state that I am not clear upon all the details, but I know that Ron received fifty point for being a brilliant chess player, which he is, Hermione, who is a serious, intelligent girl who generally abides by the rules, received fifty points for her cool head, Harry Potter got sixty points for his pure nerve and outstanding courage, as if anyone would expect anything else from the boy who conquered You-Know-Who, and Longbottom was granted five for standing up to them, which broke our tie with Slytherin. I have better board the train now, but I thought you would be interested in knowing. You need not tell Charlie, because I have already updated him.

Your brother,

Percy

As he read this, Bill scratched his head. When did Ron become friends with Harry Potter, and what on earth did they do? He shrugged, suspecting that he would never find out. Well, at least life at Hogwarts was not settling down anytime soon, like it ever would with a Weasley there, and at least Ron was oaky, because it sounded like whatever he had been entangled in was deadly.


	36. Chapter 36

A Vacation

Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction, and, therefore, I obviously do not own it. I'm just borrowing it without permission, but with every intention of returning it.

Reviews: I love them, so please don't be shy. Thanks again to all my regular reviewers, who always provide me with positive feedback.

Author's Note: Thanks to the reviewer, GoddessofYouth, who suggested that Bill return home for a not specifically referenced in canon visit, because such an idea forms the basis of this chapter. For those of you who enjoyed my letters, they will make an appearance in the following chapter, never fear.

Warning: There are mild references to what might be considered by some to be child abuse in connection to Louis, so if you want you can just skip to the Burrow part of the chapter, if you wish to miss them entirely. Personally, as with the suicide, I don't think it is enough to raise the rating, as I don't find the references to be to be too explicit or anything, but if anyone feels otherwise, please let me know, as I don't want to expose anyone to something inappropriate, if I can avoid it. Don't worry, the rest of the chapter is a sweet coming home scene to cheer you up. (Believe it or not, I am actually a happy person, and I'm not insane, just special.)

"Lou?" Bill inquired one night in early July after they had completed washing the supper dishes, and had just commenced their Exploding Snap tournament, with Louis dealing.

"I'm all ears," Louis replied as he briskly divided the cards, "which means that you're probably laughing your head off at me, since I look so funny, given that I'm just a gigantic mound of ears."

"Have you visited home since you started working here as a Curse-Breaker?" asked Bill, as they organized their cards to the maximum strategic value.

"My home in France, or yours in Britain?" teased the other man with his twisted smile.

"Yours in France, because I am aware of the fact that you would perish before you set foot in England."

"You mean, I would die of starvation after I arrived, if I was mental enough to go there, as English food is not actually edible," grumbled Louis as they began to play.

"My mum's cooking is excellent, and snails, no matter how you prepare them, are revolting, and, yet, the French insist upon having them." Exasperated, Bill shook his head. "However, we've had this argument a million times before, and, as wonderful as it is to mock you, you still haven't answered my question, and I want an answer."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten what the question was, Bill." Louis' tone was affectedly innocent, which caused the younger Curse-Breaker to contemplate what on earth he was endeavoring to conceal.

"I'll refresh your memory, as I'm not senile, unlike you. I asked you if you visited your home in France after you settled here in Egypt as a Curse-Breaker," repeated Bill patiently.

"No, I haven't." Louis' voice was clipped, which, Bill had figured out in his years with the man, was an indication that he did not want a particular topic breached. Still, he discovered that Louis' aversion toward the subject was too intriguing to allow the discussion to be buried.

Therefore, he pressed, "Why not?"

"Because I did not desire to." Louis shrugged, a gesture designed to be as ambiguous as his words.

"I couldn't reach that conclusion by myself, thanks for the assistance." Bill could not suppress an eye roll as he made this comment. "Actually, though, I was asking why you did not wish to see your family, Louis, and I gather that you assumed as much, as you are not as dumb as you would like me to believe when you behave in this thick-headed manner."

"You are much too nosy, Bill." There was a slight grin on Louis' face now.

"I've told you a thousand times that with friends and family it's classified as caring, not nosiness, and, surprisingly, I am generous enough to constitute you as a friend."

"That's why I never come back home, if you want to refer to it as that, though I just call it a place where a bunch of idiots who happen to be related congregate to terrorize one another, and torture the neighbors with their resounding debates," stated Louis abruptly, as he slapped a card down with more aggression than the deed strictly required, and Bill flinched at his harsh definition of home.

"Huh?" Bill felt his forehead crinkle in confusion at Louis' assertion.

"You heard me, I never returned home, because my family did not care about me at all, so there was no profit in it," sighed Louis, fiddling absentmindedly with a linen sheet. "It's just another way for the heart to break, if it didn't shatter the first time around there."

"Surely you're jesting, Lou! You family must have loved you, because that's what family is all about!" Bill was incapable of keeping the disbelief from clouding his voice. Up until now, he had seen home as a comforting place, and family as morale boosters, who sometimes were embarrassments.

This remark was greeted with a mere snort from his comrade. "Maybe they did, and they were just unable to show it. If that's the case, they made a major mistake when they decided not to become entertainers, because they were brilliant at acting as though they loathed every one of my guts."

Discomfited now, Bill scrutinized the floor, frantically devising a plot to divert the exchange back to a more pleasurable, and more stable foundation. Before he could do so, however, Louis grunted, "You remember your first day here, Bill, when I suggested that the only reason you would be here was because you had issues with your family?"

"Yeah," Bill confirmed, his volume barely audible.

"Well, I was wrong, but don't go getting used to it, for it rarely happens. Anyway, you don't have family problems, all the owls and presents you receive is enough to show me that, if the way you babble on about the rest of the Weasley pack isn't already enough to convince me of that." A sound like pebbles scratching the bottom of a metallic pail signaled that Louis had cleared his throat, and his voice was husky as he confessed, "The truth is, I was judging you by myself, and by why I had come here."

An uncomfortable silence, as thick as molasses with none of its sweetness, flooded the tent, and then Louis resumed, "I might have been so irritable with you because I was jealous of you, with your ties to your brothers and parents, bonds that I will never have, and something you will always have, unless you are stupid enough to throw it all away, which I doubt." When Bill opened his mouth to respond with words he had not figured out yet, his companion held up a hand to curtail him in this venture, as he went on, "I was the youngest of three boys—and the most disappointing, as my father delighted in reminding me on a regular basis. Like my siblings, I received excellent marks in school, as my father demanded an exceptional academic performance from his offspring. Yet, unlike my brothers, I did not put much effort into my studies, because I just wanted to rebel against my father, who just never understood me. I only did well in school because I was curious and intuitive, not because I was driven to suceed."

"I was like that, too, for the most part," Bill grinned. "It annoyed the heck out of some Ravenclaws, I can assure you." He would not start thinking about Sarah Jones now, he would not.

"It incited my father's wrath, as well," returned Louis grimly, and Bill's mild amusement sailed out of him instantly, leaving him hollow. "All the 'conversations' I had with my old man involved shouts and belts, usually both."

"You don't mean what I think you're implying," hedged Bill, as his eyes widened in alarm, and his face blanched. His stomach revolted inside him, and bile deluged his mouth. How could anyone do that to their offspring? His father would never hurt any of his children by word or deed, and neither would his mother, who was sometimes guilty of the sin of loving too much. Even Fred and George understood that they were loved and wanted at the Burrow. How could any parent not tell their child that they were wonderful and loveable?

"Sure, I do." There was a steely quality to Louis' manner now. His words elicited more nausea in his friend. Seeing Bill's ashen face, the man amended, "Don't look so horrified, Bill. When I was a kid, that was how misbehavior was dealt with, and I was a headstrong one. Still, you can't blame me for not being eager to see him again, since he never took anytime to get to know me, unless it was to examine my faults at length. Incidentally, you might be interested to learn that there are thousands of them. Anyhow, the only positive thing I can say about him is that he hasn't excised me from his will, and the only compliment I imagine I will get from him is that I had the sense to distance myself from him, so he can be at peace in my absence."

Trying and failing dismally to absorb this revelation, Bill shook his head reflexively, establishing weakly, "Dad wouldn't even take a belt to Fred and George when they did horrible, potentially lethal things like attempting to force Ron to make and break an Unbreakable Vow, and they have the nerve to complain that their butts are still not the same after the incident."

This remark shattered the tension pervading tent, as it sparked a chortle from Louis, who choked out in a fit of amusement, "I would like to meet those rebel angels someday. It would be a laugh, I imagine."

"What did you call the dreadful duo?" chuckled Bill.

"Rebel angels—it seems an apt term, as, no matter what you say au contraire, I cannot envision any of your family members as wholly evil," Louis responded.

"Meet them, and you'll see there's more demon than angel in them, or my name is not Bill Weasley." Grinning, he finished casually, "You're more than welcome to return to England with me on Wednesday, if you dare confront them in real life, where they are not so sweet as in my stories."

"Ah, so you're taking some vacation time to visit your clan, then, that's what made you ask your question," drawled Louis. Without waiting for affirmation, he plowed on, "Well, have a swell vacation. Don't fret, as if you would, for I can manage without you, since I've been doing it for years before you came here."

"And I'm certain you did a pathetic job," mocked the younger man.

His comrade wrinkled his nose at him. "Say, Bill, have you seen my Spellotape? The piece around your mouth is coming off again."

"Yeah, I borrowed it to put on yours actually." He ducked the pillow Louis sent in his direction as he threw one at his fellow Curse-Breaker in retaliation.

On Wednesday afternoon, Bill returned to the Burrow, beaming broadly as he utilized his wand to conduct his luggage up the pathway, and into the crowded, cozy dwelling. In the distance, he could spot, if he squinted, the twins and Ron playing Quidditch on the knoll, and his mood improved still more at the glimpse of three of his brothers. When he entered the house, Molly Weasley raced up to him, and wrapped her arms around him in a crushing embrace comparable to that of a vexed python's.

"Oh, Bill! I saw the hand on the clock move, and I knew you would be here any second!" she exclaimed merrily. "I'm so thrilled to see you again, dear! It's been too long, much too long, you know. How is Egypt?"

"Blazing hot, as always, though I'm wearing plenty of your anti-sunburn potion," Bill panted as his mum relinquished her hold on him, and his lungs, which had been smashed against his shattered ribcage, struggled to suck in oxygen from the environment.

"And how is work?" she pressed, continuing her maternal interview.

"Great. Louis and I are uncovering all sorts of treasures," Bill informed her with a trace of smugness. "In fact, the goblins in our Cairo headquarters have taken to grunting at me how valuable I am becoming, which is quite flattering, as goblins are even more sparing of praise than McGonagall."

"_Professor _McGonagall," Mrs. Weasley reminded him sternly.

"I'm not in school anymore, Mum," Bill riposted.

"I'm perfectly aware of that, thank you very much, but you could still strive to be—" Mrs. Weasley's sentence was cut short by the sounds of feet clattering down the stairs to the kitchen.

"Bill!" yelled Ginny, locking her arms around him as she launched herself at him from across the room. Surprised by how much she had grown since he had seen her last, Bill took an extra second to fling his arms around her in response.

"Ginny," he complimented her, stroking her hair affectionately, "you've shot up like a weed, although you're lovelier than a spring flower."

"I hope I'm not so delicate as all that." Giggling, Ginny tugged her hair gingerly out of his grasp, as she playfully stood on tiptoe to yank on his ponytail. "Don't mess with my hair, or I'll rumple yours," she educated him, her tone jesting. "Didn't we cover that before you left for Egypt?"

"You're right, we did, I'm sorry, it was a long time ago for this bad boy," Bill admitted, laughing, as he seated himself at the kitchen table. His mother marched over to the refrigerator to pour him a glass of pumpkin juice, and his sister slipped into the chair across from him.

"Yes, it was a long time," Ginny agreed, as exuberant as Charlie, "and so many things have occurred since then!"

"Like what? What secrets have you been keeping from me, tigress?" Bill accepted the goblet of juice his mum handed him, nodding his thanks.

"The fact that I saw Harry Potter twice," squealed Ginny, blushing to the roots of her vibrant Weasley hair, and Bill recognized with a sinking feeling that she sounded just like Heather, Steph, and Jennifer had when they were crushing on a boy. There was that same note of excited worship in Ginny's tone now. With a pang, he realized that his little sister was not very little anymore. In fact, she was getting soft feelings for members of the opposite sex, which meant that dating was next, and then...and then marriage.

Deciding that he certainly did not want to space down that lane, he firmly directed himself to concentrate on the present. When he was sure that his voice would be conversational, he replied, "I heard that Ron had become pals with Potter from Percy, is that true, lioness?"

"Yes." Ginny's curtain of auburn hair rose and fell like waves in the ocean as she bobbed her head excitedly. "Ron talks about their adventures together all the time at the table, which means that I drop my utensils terribly often, since Harry's name is mentioned frequently. Did you know that Harry survived another run-in with You-Know-Who?"

"No!" Bill's voice rose by an octave in his shock. "Perce informed me that Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, was the bad guy." Wonderful, just wonderful. Now he was bewildered and horrified. Could You-Know-Who be resurrected once more, ready to inflict pain and death on hundreds of witches, wizards, and Muggles. If so, why hadn't his parents apprised him of this? He would have returned to England in a heartbeat, or less, and he was ready to fight the most evil wizard ever to curse the planet with his presence this time around, as he was an adult now, not a helpless little boy.

"Oh, well, from what Ron's explained to us, Quirrell is the bad guy, but only in the sense that he had You-Know-Who sticking out of the back of his head—"

"What?" Bill interrupted, spitting out the pumpkin juice in his mouth. Impatient with himself, he flicked his wand, and the mess cleaned itself.

"You-Know-Who possessed Quirrell, who tried to steal the Sorcerer's Stone, which grants eternal life of some sort, from Gringotts," Ginny started to explain.

However, her eldest brother interjected once more. "I heard about the break-in at the London branch, but Rotttentooth and Foulbreath, my companion goblins, claimed that nothing was stolen."

"Nothing was stolen, according to Ron, because Dumbledore had removed the Sorcerer's Stone from the vault Quirrell broke into," Ginny clarified heavily. "Dumbledore hid the Sorcerer's Stone at Hogwarts behind Devil's Snare, flying keys of which only one would actually open the door, an enchanted chess set designed to murder, a troll, poisons, and in the Mirror of Erised. When Quirrell tried to attain it for You-Know-Who, Harry intervened to save the day, although he, Ron, and their friend Hermione, believed that Snape was the culprit."

"That's understandable," Bill smiled, "as Snape is a greasy git." As he established as much, he was grateful that his mum had left the room to do some laundry, so he did not hear her son express such a sentiment.

"But that doesn't matter, because Harry managed to foil You-Know-Who again!" proclaimed Ginny, clapping her hands. "He's my hero!"

"I thought I was your hero, you fickle girl?" Bill arched an eyebrow in her direction. He did not want her to realize how her tale had chilled him, had made shivers travel up and down his spine.

"Who says I can't have more than one hero? This world could use a lot of them, I think," Ginny retorted. More softly, she confided, "I can't wait to go to Hogwarts in September, Bill. I'll make loads of friends, just like you did, and I'll have plenty of adventures, just like Harry Potter."

"I'm sure you'll love school, tigress," he agreed, "since everyone enjoys the time they spend there. So, how are the twins doing?"

"They're busy making everyone else on the planet miserable," quipped his sister, "which, of course, means they're doing magnificent."

Smiling at this biting assessment, Bill inquired, "And what about Percy?"

"I don't really know." Ginny shrugged her shoulders, putting her ignorance in this matter on display. "Nobody does, as he's barricaded himself in his bedroom ever since he returned home from the holidays, and he keeps sending Hermes, the owl Mum and Dad purchased for him when he was made a prefect, off with letters. It's very mysterious, and if it were anyone save Percy, I would suspect that they were breaking the law."

"Hmm, you're right, he does seem to be acting oddly," her brother conceded. "I'm going to run upstairs, and see if I can worm an explanation out of him." After shoving himself out of his chair, Bill kissed his mother, who had returned with her arms filled with a laundry basket, on the cheek, and Ginny on the forehead, before hastening up the steps, feeling like a child again. In fact, he was so confused about what time period he was currently occupying, that he half-expected Charlie's thundering footfalls behind him, but that was nothing short of folly, as Charlie was working in Romania at the moment.

When he reached the second floor landing, he strode over to Percy's door, and knocked. "Who is it?" A stuffy voice shouted from within.

"Your elder brother, just returned from the land of the pharaoh's, who will curse you if you deny him entry," he hollered back.

Within seconds, the door swung open, and Percy was standing before him, his hand stuck out in a greeting that suggested they had never met before. "Hello, Bill," Percy rambled formally, as the Curse-Breaker accepted the handshake, "I apologize most profusely for neglecting to greet you downstairs upon your arrival. To be entirely honest at the risk of alienating you, I regret to inform you that I forgot that your visit commenced today."

"No stress," Bill assured him placidly, deciding not to count how many big words Percy employed in the course of this conversation, as it would, no doubt, be a massive amount, meaning that it would be like counting single trees in a forest. "I just wanted to thank you for the letter. I was pleased to hear that Gryffindor won the House Cup. House loyalties, you will find don't wane over the years."

"You need not thank me for the note, and we were all most proud of our victory."

"I see." The senior Weasley was silent for a moment prior to taking the plunge. "I've only just finished catching up with Ginny a bit, and she claims that you've been spending all your summer days locked up in here."

"I am entitled to my privacy, and I have been busy of late." Percy fixated his gaze on his bedspread, as he delivered this rote response.

"Is something troubling you—are you fretting about O.W.L. results, or something?" Bill could not think of anything else that might be plaguing his sibling. "If it's that, you've nothing to fear, Perce, you'll do fine, I promise."

"No," Percy answered quickly, "thank you for your concern, but I am not worried about O.W.L. grades, or anything of the sort, although that by no means is intended to imply that I deem them as unimportant, because, of course, I place an incredible emphasis upon them."

"Then what is troubling you?"

There was a pause, and then the third Weasley brother whispered, "Do you promise not to share it with anyone, William Arthur Weasley?"

"Of course I do." Bill was more confused then ever. What on earth would make Percy behave like this? If it were any of his other siblings, he would have suspected that they were doing something to anger Mum, or even Dad, but this was Perfect Percy, who never violated the rules. Even as a little boy, Percy had adhered to such foolish rules, as "no running." Therefore, it had to be something else. As to what exactly it was, Bill had no clue.

"I—well, that is to say—I am—well, I'm going out with a girl—Penelope Clearwater is her name," faltered Percy, flushing like Ginny had a few minutes before in the kitchen when she spoke of Harry Potter.

For a moment, Bill had to battle to cloak his astonishment, because this had been the last thing he had anticipated, for Percy did not cultivate an image of a person who was willing to engage in any romantic activity, when he could be burying his nose in a tome, studying, or enforcing the rules.

"She's very nice, responsible, beautiful with curly hair, and clever, and she's a prefect, like me," continued Percy, a dreamy cast to his face. "She's a Ravenclaw, though, not a Gryffindor."

"I went out with a Ravenclaw, Christine, once," Bill replied, nodding. "So, you're been busy writing to her all summer?"

"Yes, and she's been writing back. After all, I must not let her think that anything could come between us." Percy regained his typical matter-of-fact manner, as the lovestruck look left his features.

"I'll leave you to your romantic correspondence, in that case." With that, he spun about to go. On impulse, he added, "Don't worry, I'll keep your secret, because the twins can be merciless with their bullying, you know."

"I am aware of that, believe me, I am aware of that." Percy's tone was dry, and his older sibling debated inwardly if Perce had cracked a joke as he descended the stairs to play a game with Ginny.

That night at supper, after everyone had started on their chicken pot pie and salad, Mrs. Weasley asked Ron, "Ron, dear, have you still not received a return owl from Harry?"

"Yeah, I haven't heard from him," answered Ron, his mouth filled with chicken so thoroughly that his cheeks were protruding like a chipmunk's. Swallowing, he added, "I reckon Errol keeps collapsing en route."

"I've never heard of Errol fainting in the middle of a journey so often," frowned Mr. Weasley.

"Well, if _someone _would loan me their owl, I might be able to get into contact with Harry." Ron glared pointedly at Percy, who returned the look loftily.

"I've already explained to you, Ron, that Hermes was otherwise engaged when you requested his services. If that had not been the case, I would have been more than happy to assist you."

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Bill decided to intervene before he had to witness a homecoming spat, which would make him wish he was back in Egypt. "Too I left Nekhebet in Egypt with Louis, or else you could have borrowed her, Ron."

"It's all right," grunted Ron, helping himself to a heap of greens. "I'll just send Errol to Harry again tonight. Might be a thousand times lucky, you know."

"If he hasn't replied to you by the first of August, we ought to see about fetching him here, don't you agree, Arthur dear?" declared Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh, yes, that's a wonderful idea," her spouse supported her instantly, beaming. "We could drive there, and see firsthand how Muggles live. Perhaps we shall even see a fellytone, or a pelevision."

"How exciting," commented Fred, "I simply tremble in anticipation."

"I've got to prepare my camera for such an eventuality," finished George.

"Don't talk to your father like that," snarled their mother.

To Bill's surprise, the generally socially inept Percy inserted himself into the conversation. "It's a shame that you did not take your Nekhebet with you, Bill, since she and Hermes could become acquainted with each other, as you'll be rooming with me, as Fred and George have taken over the room you and Charlie used to share."

Bill was mildly alarmed at this announcement, as he had not considered who he would be rooming with when he visited the Burrow, since he had been so accustomed to sharing one with Charlie. He suspected that sharing a room with Percy would not be as entertaining or as enriching an experience as doing the same with Charlie. Still, Percy would not be a terrible roommate, especially for a mere week. Undoubtedly, he would be orderly and quiet, not disturbing his brother's peace, and, in return, demanding that Bill not intrude upon his studious solitude, or read his letters to Penelope Clearwater.

"Finally, I can room with somebody who doesn't dump sweaty Quidditch robes on my half of the room," Bill teased Percy, trying to tempt a smile out of his sibling, an effort in which he failed dismally.

"I'm sure we will get along just fine." Percy nodded seriously, and Bill wondered if his younger brother would ever appreciate his sense of humor. Probably not, he groaned inwardly. Oh, well, maybe he was not as funny as he liked to think, or maybe Percy was hopelessly thick-witted, however much his grades may suggest the contrary.


	37. Chapter 37

Horror at Hogwarts

Disclaimer: I just play around with J.K. Rowling's characters. She created them, and I did not. Glad we covered that.

Author's Note: Sorry if time flies quickly by in this chapter again, I want to encompass the entirety of the second Harry Potter book in this chapter without being redundant, as J.K. Rowling did a much better job writing the original stories. Those of you who are fans of the letters will hopefully be satisfied with Ginny's. Also, sorry it took me so long to update, but school kept me busy, and everything, and I had to look at colleges and prepare for midterms.

Reviews: Yes, please.

After catching up with his family for a week during which time Harry still did not respond to any of Ron's letters, Bill Flooed from the London branch of Gringotts back to the Cairo one. Although he had enjoyed visiting his family, he was happy to return to Egypt, and excited to get back to lifting ancient curses and breaking onto long deserted tombs. However, he did not have to wait long for updates from the Weasleys that remained in England, for an exhausted, near-collapse Errol arrived in early August, bearing a note from Ginny. As Errol fainted on the floor, Bill read in Ginny's more mature eleven-year-old handwriting:

**Dear Bill, **

**How are you? I hope that you are enjoying the tombs. Myself, I would not mind seeing some of the riches, mummies, and artwork in the pyramids, although Mum says it's very dangerous. Still, I know that if I went into them with you, you would keep me safe. **

**Anyway, much is happening at the homefront, since you departed again for Egypt. Percy's O.W.L. results, for instance, came the other day, and he received twelve of them, just like you did. Speaking of Percy, there is certainly something off going on with him, because he did not puff himself up about his results half as much as he would typically have done. Also, as you undoubtedly noticed during your stay at the Burrow, he is constantly locking himself in his bedroom and sending off mysterious letters off with Hermes. **

**Getting off the subject of perfect Percy, whose perfect O.W.L. results, by the way, are not the main reason for my writing to you, Harry Potter is here! That's right, Harry Potter is staying with us until school starts. I only wish that I could stop dropping things like a clumsy imbecile, which I'm not, whenever he enters room I'm in, and that I could speak in his presence, or, at the very least, cease blushing every time I am near him. **

**The story of how Harry came to be at our humble abode is a quite interesting one, actually. By the start of August, Ron was getting really concerned when Harry had not written back to him yet, as Harry lives with his cruel aunt and uncle, so he decided to take matters into his own hands, which, when you're dealing with Ron, is never an auspicious omen. The idiot went to Fred and George for help, as if the terror twins would ever be of genuine assistance to anyone, especially a family member. The three of them flew Dad's broken down Ford Anglia over to Harry's house in Surrey to fetch him and then back to the Burrow again. I suppose we ought to be grateful that they had the presence of mind to do so in the dead of night, which concealed a flying car from Muggle eyes, though, I imagine that everyone in England heard Mum shout at them for flying the Ford Anglia all over the country. As a punishment Ron, Fred, and George had to de-gnome the garden, although I don't think they minded too much, as they had great sport having a gnome-hurling contest as they set about this chore. Harry, by the way, was very chivalrous, and went off to help them, even though Mum told him he could rest instead. It's no wonder I like him so much. He's such a gentleman. **

**I'd better go. Mum is calling me, and it smells like meatloaf, and I don't want Fred, George, and Ron to eat it all. (Harry would not do such a thing, though, since he's really nice, although I'm not sure he is really aware that I exist.) **

**Love from your lioness, **

**Ginny **

Smiling at Ginny's frank assessment of the twins' and Ron's characters, grimacing at the picture of his mum's ire at his brothers' decision to fly a car all across England, laughing at the thought of a gnome-throwing competition, and shaking his head in resignation at Ginny's love-struck attitude, Bill set about reviving Errol. Once Errol had been shaken awake, an action that caused the owl to squawk weakly in indignation, and given water and a bowl of food, Bill started composing a response. After unearthing a quill and a roll of parchment, he began to reply:

_**Dearest Ginny,**_

_**I was delighted to hear from you again, tigress. I am missing you and the rest of the family, even, surprisingly, the dreadful duo, but I am enjoying the time in Egypt, because it is exciting to break into all these ancient tombs and remove terrible curses from them. As you said, it is amazing to see firsthand the artistic master and wealth of the Egyptians. If you do ever visit Egypt, and you still want anything to do with your annoying older brother, I would be glad to show you around some of the pyramids, although Mum is right, and they are dangerous, which is why you would have to swear to me that you would obey me if you came into them with me, as I could not protect you, otherwise.**_

_**Anyway, tell Percy congratulations for his twelve O.W.L.s from me, if he comes out of his bedroom long enough for you to actually see him. If you don't see him outside his room, don't bother him, because teenaged boys require their privacy. (I know because I was one.) About the flying car rescue of Harry Potter, I have to say that, although it endangered the secrecy of the Wizarding World as a whole, it is rather amusing. It's nice to hear that Harry Potter is safe at the Burrow now, until the twins play a trick on him, anyhow. Good luck with getting over your shyness around him. After all, if he's as friendly as you and Ron claim, you have nothing to fear from him. Also, I hope you got a good size piece of Mum's meatloaf, and that the wolves affectionately dubbed Fred and George did not gobble it all up by themselves with a little help from the pig Ron. **_

_**Your loving brother, **_

_**Bill**_

Since Errol seemed to have recovered from his strenuous journey, Bill attached his note to Ginny on the owl's foot, and sent it off.

It was September the third when Bill next heard from his little sister.

**Dear Bill, **

**I was so excited for my first day at Hogwarts, because I've been looking forward to going to school ever since you went, but my first day has not been all that wonderful, to be honest. Snape kept picking on all of us Gryffindors, including me, when I could not answer some stupid question about some most likely useless potion, and Colin Creevey and I failed dismally in creating a boil curing potion. **

**Transfiguration was no better, as I had no clue what McGonagall was yammering on about in the front of the room, and the annoying thing was that I was actually attempting to understand, and I was utterly hopeless at transforming my match into a needle. As for History of Magic, it was mind-numbingly boring, as all Binns did was chatter on about some sort of international medieval wizard convention (at least, that's what I think he was babbling on about, but I lost focus and my mind disengaged after five minutes, so don't hold me to it.) The plus side was that Colin Creevey and I started planning out our Harry Potter fan club, of which we will both be co-founders. Colin is responsible for getting photographs, preferably signed, of Harry Potter, and I organize the meetings and keep a list of members in my diary, which is really cool, because it absorbs ink after you write, so our club can be a sort of secret society. **

**Still, as uninspiring as my first day was, except, of course for the auspicious start of the Harry Potter fan club, which currently has two members, (speaking of which, would you care to join? I know you can't attend meetings, as you're busy in Egypt, but we can make an exception for you, and I would be more than happy to keep you posted.), Ron's day was worse than mine. The reason Ron's day was so awful is quite a long, somewhat hilarious in a tragic sort of way, tale. It all started on September the first, when we were all running late as always, especially because the terrible twins had to go back for some prank equipment, and I had to return after that to fetch my diary. **

**Since we were all running behind the time, Percy, Fred, George, Mum, Dad, and I darted through the barrier onto Platform 9 ¾, with Harry and Ron on our heels. Or so we thought. It seems that the boys were unable to get onto the Platform, for some bizarre reason, and, instead of sending Harry's owl to the school, or waiting for Mum and Dad to return, they decided to fly the Ford Anglia to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, as it was broad daylight, they were spotted by several Muggles, who, it turns out, are not accustomed to glimpsing cars soaring through the air. Also, they were unlucky enough to smash into a Whomping Willow, which ruined our car, which, according to Ron, has now taken refuge in the Forbidden Forest, and also broke Ron's wand. Ron's battered wand meant that all the magic he tried to perform failed even worse than mine did, as his spells had the opposite effect, whereas mine just had no effect, meaning a did no harm, unlike him. **

**Furthermore, he and harry have a detention hanging over their heads. I do hope they don't have to do anything dreadful. Also, Ron was blessed with a Holwer from Mum about the flying car, and how it could have cost Dad his job and all. Ron seemed ready to die from humiliation. Harry blushed, too. He's handsome when he flushes. I wish I were that beautiful when the blood stains my face, but, due to my flaming hair, that is impossible. **

**Anyway, I'm really tired, because it was an immensely demanding first day. Please write back. **

**Love from your tigress,**

**Ginny**

This letter called for a lengthy response, Bill diagnosed as he rummaged about a dresser drawer, on a quest to uncover an ink bottle and a quill. After a minute or two of searching, he unearthed the implements unnecessary for composing correspondence, and he grabbed a scrawl of parchment from his nightstand, and went out to the living room table to write to Ginny. He thought for a moment, and then started scribbling:

_**Dear Ginny,**_

_**I'm sorry to learn that your first day at Hogwarts was not as awesome as you had hoped. Still, don't fret too much, for very few people can claim that their first day as school is wonderful. Myself, my first day at the castle was certainly not in my top thousand days, yet I still come to enjoy it, and think of it as a sort of second home. It's great that you've made friends with Colin Creevey, whom you share interests with. As time progresses, I'm positive that you will make new friends, who will help make even your worse days bearable, and, as you understand more about magic, your lessons will ease up.**_

_**I regret to inform you that Snape, however, will continue to be horrible to you and every other Gryffindor as long as you continue to take Potions. He's just a terrible, smelly git who has yet to figure out how to shower and use shampoo **__**properly**__** (since Fred and George replaced his hair care solution with a fire-inducing one, I can no longer assert that he doesn't use a hair-cleansing potion, but I will maintain that he has no idea how to correctly employ it. Believe me, nobody who showers and utilizes shampoo correctly, would have hair greasy enough to grease a hundred frying pans. Even Charlie, who has been known to go days without showering is someone, generally me, does not bug him, does not have hair like that.) Anyway, Snape just takes his low-self-confidence resulting from his ugliness out on his students. I remember my first day. He asked my friends and me all sorts of nasty questions, and made fun of all our responses. We exacted revenge by making fun of him behind his back. **_

_**Similarly, don't feel badly if you did not understand a word McGonagall blabbed on about in Transfiguration. On my first lesson, I was utterly convinced that she was babbling on in some other language besides English, and most of my class was incapable of transforming their matches into needles. Magic is difficult to perform at first. Be patient with yourself. You'll be an incredible witch, tigress. Never forget that you're the lucky number seven. **_

_**As for History of Magic, don't fret if you find it highly dull. Everyone does. (Okay, I admit that I was weird enough to find goblin rebellions fascinating, but everybody has their quirks. Mine is kind of loveable and relatively harmless.) You can always visit the library, and find the same information that is covered in class. Sometimes learning by yourself can be more fun than listening to Binns' desert-dry lectures. (Yes, the desert comparison is a direct result of my being in Egypt.) **_

_**My sympathies also go to Ron, so you can inform him of that when you talk to him next. Sure, he was stupid not to contact the school, but he did not deserve to smash into the Whomping Willow, which must have hurt very much. Tell him that I hope he attains a new wand soon, and that the Howler will soon be forgotten by the rest of the student body. **_

_**By the way, I would be happy to join your Harry Potter fan club. Keep me posted on everything, will you, lioness?**_

_**Love,**_

_**Bill **_

As he wrote this last bit, Bill shook his head. Personally, he had no interest in joining a Harry Potter fan group, or any other fan club, for that matter. Still, it was not like it would ever get around that he had joined, so he saw no reason to refuse his little sister. Besides, at least Harry Potter was worthy of respect, as he appeared to have foiled You-Know-Who twice, something that was a remarkable feat, even once.

On November third, Bill received another letter dated on the thirty-first of October, from Ginny:

**Dear Bill,**

**Sorry I haven't written to you for awhile, but nothing much has been going on. I've gotten accustomed to my classes, and I've made several new friends, besides Colin Creevey, here, although Colin and I are still the only members except from you in the Harry Potter Fan Club. Speaking of the fan club, Colin has just finished preparing our first picture of Harry Potter, though, unfortunately, Harry keeps trying to escape out of the photo, because Lockhart is plaguing him. **

**This Halloween something appalling happened. Filch's cat was hung, as though dead, although Dumbledore says she was only Petrified, outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. In blood, a message was painted on the wall, declaring that the Chamber or Secrets has been opened, and "Mudbloods" should beware, as they will be assaulted next. **

**I'm so scared that something like this could happen to some of the Muggle-Borns in my year, like Colin. Admittedly, I'm also confused, because I thought the Chamber of Secrets was a made-up story, used by students to terrify each other late in the night by the fire in the common room or in their beds in their dormitories. I never supposed that a nightmare like this could come true. **

**I'm also bewildered by the fact that, although I'm pretty sure that I was at the feast, I can't remember anything about it: what I ate, who I sat with, and if I could spy Harry Potter from my location. What's even weirder is that I've got paint all over my robes, and I've no recollection of how it got there.**

**Oh, well, I'd better get to bed. I'm so tired that everything seems to be in a haze. Hopefully, I won't have too many nightmares about Mrs. Norris, or the Chamber of Secrets, or the bloody message upon the wall. Please write back with advice.**

**Your petrified (not with a capital, "P", like Mrs. Norris) sister,**

**Ginny**

As he read Ginny's letter, Bill felt his grin slowly fade to be replaced by a pensive frown that was accompanied by a wrinkled forehead. Ginny's note was deeply disconcerting. Hogwarts, to him, had always been a safe haven. Yet, now it appeared that there was a menace at the very core of it. It really seemed that Salazar Slytherin had constructed a deadly chamber that contained a lethal monster in the heart of the castle, and the heir of Slytherin had set it lose upon the student body. And four of his brothers and his only sister were there. Sure, they were purebloods, but everyone knew that the Weasleys were blood traitors, and that was as bad as being a Muggle-Born. If any of the Weasleys had an ounce of luck, Harry Potter and Dumbledore could somehow save the day again.

Ginny's letter demanded an immediate response, he thought grimly, as he hunted doewn the implements necessary to pen a reply, and then began carefully:

_**Dear Ginny,**_

_**I was sorry to learn of Mrs. Norris' fate. I sincerely hope that she can be revived soon, however, I fear that may take awhile, because Mandrakes can take a dreadfully long time to grow up. As for the Chamber of Secrets thing, I had always been convinced that it was a myth, as well. Since the danger seems real enough, though, I would advise you to be very careful, tigress, meaning stay close to your friends, and obey those in authority, even Perce. The monster won't attack you if you're in a large group. **_

_**I pray that this was just some stupid Halloween prank, and that nobody who is a Muggle-Born, such as Colin, is attacked. As for your not remembering the feast and all, don't fret, as it probably is just a symptom of the trauma resulting from Mrs. Norris' attack. The paint is a little odder, but you probably didn't notice that you were a victim of a Fred and George Halloween trick or something. **_

_**Hoping everyone remains safe,**_

_**Bill**_

After her Halloween update, Bill did not hear from Ginny again for a considerable period of time, and he barely managed to restrain himself from sending letters demanding reassurance that she was alive and well. He rationalized that he would be apprised by his family if Ginny, or any of his brothers, were harmed, and Ginny was a teenager now, who deserved her privacy and a chance at independence.

Yet he was relieved when he was the recipient of another one of her notes, though his relief was quickly transfigured to disquiet, as he read:

**Dear Bill,**

**Yesterday night, there was another attack! This time it was my friend, Colin Creevey, who was Petrified while he was attempting to get another photo of Harry Potter for out club after harry managed to get the Snitch, securing a victory for Gryffindor, even with two rogue Bludgers after him. (Although Harry's arm was broken, and then de-boned by Lockhart, our de-brained Defense Against the Dark Arts "Professor", he is fine now.)**

**The funny thing is, I don't remember waiting in the common room for Colin's return, even though I saw him leave, but I can't have gone anywhere, because I've no recollection of doing so. Anyway, I'm so devastated that Colin had been Petrified. He was my best friend here, and everytime I look at his empty chair beside mine during lessons, I shudder.**

**Fred and George keep trying to cheer me up by covering themselves with fur and boils and leaping out at me from behind statues, but they seem to be stopped now by Percy, who promised them that he would write to Mum if they kept scaring me. (As if they were, but I don't mind that they've stopped.)**

**I wish that I had the money to buy a protective amulet for myself, even if I am a pureblood,**

**Love,**

**Ginny**

Frowning, Bill pulled out a quill and parchment, before answering:

_**Dear Ginny, **_

_**I'm glad to hear that Harry is mended and that he caught the Snitch, although that's the only bit of news I can take any pleasure from. I sincerely hope that your mate Colin recovers as soon as possible. I shall pray that the Hogwarts Mandrakes develop quickly. You probably don't remember waiting for Colin, because you were devastated by the attack on him. **_

_**I'm sure the terror twins meant well, but they're so used to being naughty that they no longer have any clue about how to go about being nice. It's good that Percy puts a stop to their behavior, even if the dreadful duo meant no ill. (A rare occurrence, indeed.) **_

_**By the way, you don't need a protective amulet, lioness. Just make sure that you're never alone, and keep your wand with you at all times. Most protective amulets are utter rubbish, remember that, tigress. **_

_**Take care, **_

_**Bill**_

_**Bill**_

The next time Bill heard from his family, it was from his mother, suggesting that she and his father could visit him over Christmas, as they had visited Charlie last year. Assuming that his parents would be staying in his tent, Bill thought it best to bounce the idea of Louis before replying, because not everybody desired to spend Christmas with a co-worker's parents.

However, when asked, Louis had shrugged. "I suppose I wouldn't mind meeting the parents."

Since Louis had no objection to housing two additional bodies in their tent, Bill wrote to his parents, telling them that he would be happy to meet them on December 23rd at the Gringotts bank in Cairo at around twelve, a date that would give him, Louis, Foulbreath, and Rottentooth plenty of time to return to their main base. His mum replied that they would be there, and could hardly wait to see him again.

As such, on December the 23rd, Bill and Louis were to be found reclining against the wall of the Cairo Gringotts near the fireplaces, feeling rather stupid as they listened to the radio blare "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" when everyone in the bank recognized that the closest thing to a "white Christmas" in Egypt was one in which it rained briefly, and rain was not in the forecast for the 25th last time they had checked, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to arrive. Next to them, their companion goblins scrutinized fine gold, giving it exact values, which they recorded on their scrolls of parchment, and complained in Gobbledegook about how Christmas was a blasted waste of time and money, and how the carols were distracting. Bill could understand the second argument, although he was immensely grateful that the singer was not Celestina Warbeck, and so was willing to endure just about anything else. He fully intended to enjoy every second of his Celestina free moments, as once his mother arrived, she would be on his and Louis' radio constantly. He definitely should have requested earmuffs for the holiday.

Just as he had this gloomy realization, his mother and father walked out of the fireplace ahead of them, looking faintly dizzy, and highly uncertain about where to go next. Resembling how he must have appeared when he first arrived in Egypt, they glanced around them frantically, trying to spot a sign that was written in English, or trying to spot someone that seemed like they might speak English, so they could request directions.

Smiling, Bill raised his hand. "Here, Mum and Dad."

"Oh, there you are, dear." Beaming, Mrs. Weasley raced over to him, and engulfed him in a crushing embrace. "It's so good to see you again, and so reassuring to know that you're fine..."

"It's great to see you again, too, Mum." Bill squeezed her back, and then pulled free to greet and shake hands with his father. After he had finished welcoming both his parents, he noticed that his mum was eyeing Louis and the two goblins with some confusion, and he realized with a twinge of chagrin, that he had failed to perform an introduction. It was time to remedy that.

"Mum and Dad, there are three beings I would like you to meet." After years of working alongside goblins, especially Foulbreath and Rottentooth, Bill discovered that beings came out naturally, not 'people', since goblins took offense to being termed as humans, when, in fact, they were not. He gestured at his companion goblins. "Mum and Dad, these are my companion goblins—the goblins that I work with on a regular basis—Rottentooth and Foulbreath. You won't see that much of them, I'm afraid, as they boycott Christmas, since it is a waste of time and money, and they don't believe in Christ, or any other god, except gold, so they make a habit of avoiding Christians on Christmas. Foulbreath and Rottentooth, these are my parents. You probably won't want to have that much to do with them, as they celebrate Christmas and don't speak your language."

Neither of his parents seemed entirely sure how to greet a goblin in a social context, rather than a business one. In the end, they settled for, "Hello, it's nice to meet you."

To this, the goblins wished them prosperity and efficiency, and then mumbled that they wanted to hand over these slabs of gold now that they knew the value of them, before they entered the desert once more.

As the goblins left, Bill gestured at Louis, and added, "And this is Monsieur Louis Blancheflor. He's the kind of person that when he smells the aroma of flowers, searches for a coffin, looks both ways before crossing a one-way street, burns his bridges before he gets to them, and is completely convinced that everyone is as disagreeable as he is, and is determined to hate the rest of the world for that. Still, you'll come to appreciate him in the end."

"Whereas you're the type who, upon reaching the foregone conclusion that a rose smells sweeter than a cabbage becomes enamored of the notion that it will make a more delicious soup, never reads the papers, except to fill out the crosswords, which you do in ink, but you're loveable with all your optimistic folly," snorted Louis, shaking hands with Bill's parents. As he did so, he commented to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, "By the way, you may call me Louis, if you like. That's what my friends call me, or, at least they would, if I had any friends, which I don't."

Bill rolled his eyes. "There you go with the negative thinking, again. I know for a fact that you've got three friends." He waved his wand at his parents' trunks, causing them to soar into the air in front of him. With a further twist, he conducted them to the exit. "Come on, let's get back to the tent."

"You can unpack while I cook dinner," Louis continued as they crossed over to the doors. When they entered the streets of Cairo, they saw that Rottentooth and Foulbreath were waiting impatiently for them by their camels. Bill was happy that he had the foresight to rent an extra one for his parents and their luggage.

As she was helped onto her camel, wearing an uneasy expression that suggested she was not fond of the idea of riding on a camel's back, Molly Weasley asked Louis in tones of surprise, "You can cook?"

"Yes, but I only do French food," Louis responded as he hopped onto his own camel with far more confidence than Mrs. Weasley. "I shall give you all some lovely homemade croissants, quiche, and French onion soup for dinner. For dessert, we shall have some of my truffles, which are one of my specialties."

"Don't refuse him, Mum," Bill advised, "because then I'd have to cook, since it's a holiday, and you're not supposed to, and he's loads better at cooking than I am. The truffles are to die for. They simply melt in your mouth."

"Well, of course I wasn't going to refuse him, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled, "and that meal does sound delicious."

The supper they had two hours later, in Bill and Louis's tent huddled around the kitchen table certainly was delicious. They were midway through the French onion soup and the croissants, when Mrs. Weasley sighed, "I worry about the children at school all alone, what with everyone else going on vacation, and all that."

"I'm sure they'll stay together in the common room, and nothing will dare to attack them as a group, Molly dear," her husband reassured her, taking a sip of his champagne.

"I don't know, Arthur, I just don't know." Grimly, Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "Remember that double attack right before the winter recess that Percy wrote home to us about? If the beast dares to attack two beings at once, what's to stop it from attacking a group of people? And poor Harry..." She trailed off, her hands wringing and her eyes filling with tears, as generally happened when she spoke of the aforementioned orphan that she had virtually adopted as one of her brood of children.

"Poor Harry?" echoed a bewildered Bill, his eyebrows arched. More nervously, he inquired, "Was Harry attacked?" Surely, Ginny would have told him if such a tragedy had transpired, yet she hadn't corresponded with him in awhile, so it was possible, he realized with a sting, that she could have forgotten to inform him in the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts daily life, especially the daily life of a Hogwarts under siege.

"No, no, nothing like that," Mr. Weasley answered hurriedly. "It's just that Harry was discovered with the two latest victims, and so a majority of Hogwarts students seem to believe that he opened the Chamber of Secrets."

"But that's ridiculous," spluttered Bill, coming to the defense of a boy whom he had never met, and so really could not judge in all fairness, "Harry's a Gryffindor, and everyone knows that the Chamber of Secrets is a distinctly Slytherin idea, what with the fact that it was created by Slytherin, and contains the monster of Slytherin, which can only be controlled and unleashed by the heir of Slytherin."

"Since when has gossip made any sense?" Louis cut in, rolling his eyes, and Bill elected to ignore this.

Looking at his parents, he demanded, "Surely Dumbledore doesn't believe this nonsense?"

"No, he doesn't believe Harry to be the heir of Slytherin, and neither do we," his father stated firmly. "That boy has nothing against Muggle-Borns, seeing as one of his best friends, Hermione Granger, is a Muggle-Born. By the way, I met her parents, and they showed me Muggle money, and they went to Diagon Alley using Muggle means of transportation..."

"Not now, Arthur dear," his spouse intervened. "Anyhow, of course, we are certain that Harry is perfectly innocent, as he is a very nice boy. That's why I worry about him and the others at that school. If Harry were the heir of Slytherin, I wouldn't be afraid for their well-being."

"I'm sure everything will turn out fine in the end, and the heir of Slytherin will be caught and expelled." Trying to soother her, Bill placed a hand on Mrs. Weasley's arm. Catching her eyes seriously, he amended, "But, if someone in our family is hurt before then, send me an owl."

"Well, all right." Mrs. Weasley offered a flustered nod.

"Good, then that just about ends the topic of the Chamber of Secrets." Smiling, Bill reached back to snatch the pan of truffles off the counter, and passed it around the table. "Chef Louis' finest truffles, anyone?"

It was pleasant spending Christmas with his parents, even though that did mean that he had to endure his mother's numerous records of Celestina Warbeck, which she insisted on playing. On the upside, he was able to consume copious amounts of her gingerbread and sugar cookies, which she persisted in making for them all. Even Louis pronounced they were delicious, though he still preferred the eclair. Sadly, the Christmas season came to an end all too soon for anyone's liking, and before he knew it, Bill was seeing his parents off at the Gringotts bank in Cairo.

After that, he did not hear from his family again until the second to last day in May, when a letter scribed in Percy's hand arrived for him. Seeing the harried quality of the script, Bill felt fear flood him, and when he read the message, it was elevated, not alleviated:

_Dear Bill,_

_It is with a heavy heart and with a genuine sense of regret that I compose this epistle to inform you that our little sister, Ginny, has been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. The message written in blood upon the wall declares that her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever. I'll leave you to interpret the meaning for yourself, as stating it would be cruel, unnecessary, and indecent. I have already apprised Mum, Dad, and Charlie of the dreadful situation, and our parents are on their way to the school now. If our parents are unable to perform the unhappy duty themselves, I will send you details of any funeral arrangements. I apologize for the rough nature of this letter, but I am too shocked to compose one less abrupt, and I thought you ought to know right away, as you were always fond of Ginny. _

_Wishing that I could tell you anything besides this, _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Percy _

Two smudged splotches of ink implied that Percy had been sobbing as he wrote this, and as he read it, Bill felt an acute sense of disbelief. Ginny could not be dead. She was such a vivacious creature, that she could not possibly die so young. Heaven could be cruel, but not that cruel. She was just an innocent little girl, who had done nothing to deserve a death sentence. And she was younger than he was. Surely the laws of nature dictated that he should die first...

As tears started to stream down his cheeks, Bill grabbed his blanket, clenching it in his fists, because he had to squeeze something, and he didn't want it to be his neck or his co-worker's neck. Ginny was his little sister, and he was supposed to shield her, and he had failed. She had died.

A thousand images deluged his mind, torturing him. Ginny toddling over to him. Ginny's baby finger clinging tightly to his. Ginny's mouse eyes fixed imploringly upon him. Ginny racing to catch up to him, her long curtain of hair flying behind her. Ginny struggling to learn to count, mispronouncing every number from one to ten. Ginny licking the maple syrup off her fingers. Ginny complaining about her brothers not permitting her to fly with them and fiddling with her hair. Ginny's eyes lighting with a romantic, worshipping flame as she praised Harry Potter. Lord, he loved his youngest sibling so much that words could never hope to explain it, and he had lost her. He felt a blade of grief so powerful that it made him not want to live anymore sweep over him, and, yet, at the same time, he wanted to hunt down the heir of Slytherin and tear him limb from limb for touching his sister.

At any other time, the ferocity of this vindictive desire would have appalled him, but at moment, it seemed perfectly rational and justified, and he began throwing clothing and other materials into a trunk without being fully aware of what he was doing.

He was just starting to pack his pajamas and underwear when a second owl arrived for him. This time it was from his parents. Biting his lip, Bill steeled himself. This one must be about Ginny's funeral arrangements. God, would he have to look at Ginny's ravaged, mangled, bloody body, and see her lifeless, cold eyes fixated unseeingly upon him, if her eyes were even remotely intact? Heavens, the only thing less bearable than attending her funeral was not going to it at all. Be brave, he scolded himself, you were a Gryffndor, remember. Now open the letter. The longer you wait, the worse it will become, and you don't want it to get any more horrible, because then you will go crazy, certifiably crazy. With this thought in mind, he opened the note, and read, with a growing sense of incredulity, his mother's update:

Bill—

Percy said that he had told you that Ginny had died in the Chamber of Secrets. I thought it best to inform you that, luckily, she is still with us, and is fine now, after Madam Promfery's ministrations. We owe such a debt to Harry, and Ron, who saved Ginny. I'm sorry that I can't write anymore, but I'm in a hurry, dear.

Love,

Mum

Droplets on the paper suggested that his mum had been crying with relief as she penned this, and, once he had absorbed this revelation, Bill discovered that he was sobbing, as well. His sister was alive. He would be able to play with her, talk to her, and write to her for many more years. Thank God. She had not left him, and he had not failed her. Words had paled in comparison to his agony when he had thought her dead, but they paled in comparison with his jubilation when he discovered that she was alive. There was justice in the universe, after all, then.


	38. Chapter 38

Disclaimer: Unless you are so dense that light bends around you, you know that I am not J.K. Rowling, and therefore, this is not my property, and she does not in anyway endorse this. She's just kind enough not to sue me. Lawyer babble officially ceased now. Sorry I took so long to update, but I had mid-terms to contend with. (So happy they're over, finally.) And, I did pretty well, except for in Math and Chem. (Got B's in those two. Dad still says that's good, but I'm like, no. Got A's in the others, though.)

Reviews: If you have the time, please feel free to provide feedback, because I appreciate it so much. Thanks as always to my regular reviewers. Don't be shy, people. I don't bite, and I respond nicely to all reviews.

Author's Note: I wrote this at the end of my A.P. Latin mid-term in the time I had left at the end during which I wasn't allowed to leave the room. Therefore, any lameness in it is due to the fact that my IQ was down several points due to all the translations I was writing, the verbs I was conjugating, and the words I was defining. (Two language tests in a row is a nightmare.)

I personally think that Charlie was present for the vacation in Egypt, because J.K. Rowling says in PoA, that "All nine of the Weasleys were waving furiously at him(Harry)" on page 8, and later on, on page 9, she says, "Six sons, and one daughter" are present in the Weasley photo outside the large pyramid in Egypt. As such, Charlie would have to be present, according to my mathematical calculations, which I'm not always sure I can trust, because I can be astoundingly stupid at times, hence the B in Math Midterm Extravaganza. No, there's no canonical base for the plane ride. Yes, I hate airplanes. No, Rita Skeeter isn't mentioned in Book 3, but we do know that Rita did do an interview on Curse-Breakers, because it is mentioned in Book 4, so I thought now would be a good opportunity to insert a reference to it. As for the fang, the Sneakoscope birthday gift for Harry, and the fang earring, that's all established in the third and fourth book. Okay, I think that is all the stuff I plan to yammer on about. Now, for the actual chapter, which is what you actually might have wanted to read:

A Family Affair

After his mum's brief statement that Ginny was alive in Madam Promfery's care, Bill was desperate for more information, just as a thirsty man in the desert would search eagerly for any oasis. Not long after he had received his mother's letter, after he had unpacked the suitcase he had thrown together to hasten off to England, he sent a concerned note to Ginny, asking what had happened to her, and how she was faring. Her reply was even more curt than her mother's, if that was possible, which, apparently, it was:

Bill— 

**Thank you for your concern. I assure you that I am fine. Actually, now that the attacks have stopped, and the end of the year exams have been cancelled, I'm more cheerful than I've been since the start of term. So, thanks for your concern, but it is unwarranted. **

**Your perfectly well sister, **

**Ginny**

When he read this missive, Bill frowned, and shook his head in exasperation. It seemed that he would never be privy to what exactly his youngest sibling had suffered through in the Chamber of Secrets, as, after that short comment that Ginny was alive, his mother did not appear to feel compelled to educate him further, and Ginny herself obviously was reluctant to let him into her confidence. But how could he assist her in her recovery if she refused to let him into her life?

The next second he was reprimanding himself. His little sister, he lectured mentally, was not five-years-old anymore, clearly, and she did not require his coddling. It was entirely possible that she was, in fact, completely recovered from the trauma of the Chamber, had no use for his consolations, and was justly vexed by his concern.

He just wished that he could know whether he was being overprotective, or if she was truly shutting him out. More than anything he wanted to see her again, face to face. If he could look her in the eye, he was certain that he could detect the truth, and all would illuminated in the light of rationality. To his surprise and delight, such an opportunity was afforded him when he received an excited letter from his father:

_Dear Bill, _

_You'll never believe what has happened! I know that I can scarcely accept it, and I'm the one it happened to! You know the annual _Daily Prophet_ Grand Prize Galleon Draw that I sometimes enter? Well, this time, I won it. (If you fell over in astonishment, you can get up now. The shocks should end soon, I promise.) _

_As we know are seven hundred Galleons richer, we finally have enough money to actually go on a family vacation like everyone else does. That being said, I think that it would be really nice if the whole family got to visit Egypt together. We would stay in a hotel, so it would be a vacation for you, too. I already talked with Charlie via owls, and he agreed that there is probably more activities for all of us in Egypt than in Romania, although he is still a little miffed that not everyone finds dragons as fascinating as he does, and he said that he had something that he wanted to show Ron that he can't bring to Egypt. (I thought I would tell you, since you and Charlie were always close, and I have no clue what he meant in the second part of the sentence.) _

_Anyway, we'll be staying at a hotel in Cairo. (I won't tell you which one, because I want it to be a surprise for you, too, Bill.) You can meet Charlie at the Gringotts headquarters in Cairo on Firday at five, and you both can meet us at the Muggle airport in Cairo at seven. (I trust the pair of you can occupy yourselves for that long. Your mum asks you to stay out of pubs, by the way.) I'm so excited to travel over long distances like Muggles, who don't have flying broomsticks or Floo Powder and who can't Apparate, do. It should be such fun eating those meals that airplanes provide. Perhaps I will learn how they can prepare so many meals so fast without magic. If I am especially lucky, perhaps, I will even figure out how Muggles get planes to stay up in the air, and move when they are so massive without magic. I' m so delighted that Molly agreed to it, because, after all, I shall probably never have such a magnificent chance to appreciate that aspect of Muggle culture._

_Love,_

_Dad _

_P.S. Your mum sends hugs and kisses, as well._

On Thursday, Bill rode his camel back through the desert to Cairo, so that he could pick up his brother at Gringotts at five. In a rare display of relative punctuality, Charlie arrived a dozen minutes after the appointed time, dragging a trunk out of the fireplace behind him.

"Charlie!" he called, waving his sibling over. Charlie glanced in his direction, recognized him, broke into a broad grin, and hurried off in Bill's direction, as fast as he could go with a heavy trunk in tow. As soon as the brothers were in arms distance, they embraced warmly. After a moment, Bill pulled back to examine the other young man. To his relief, the new arrival appeared to as fit and as exuberant as ever, although there were definite signs of burns no doubt attained from the dragons Charlie worked with every day all over his arms. Shaking his head, he inquired, half joking, half serious, "I guess that the dragons don't like their human steaks raw, do they? Are you positive that I can't convince you to take on a career in international Quidditch?"

"No more than I could convince you to get a nice desk job at the Ministry," Charlie retorted. "Now what do you do here on your days off? Show me all the stuff that you couldn't let on to Mum."

"There's an excellent Egyptian restaurant two blocks over, and not far from that is a cool museum. It's got all sorts of ancient scrolls full of old spells," Bill replied as they headed down a hallway, toward the main doors outside. "Although, I'll warn you that Egyptian cuisine is something of an acquired taste, so you won't be able to eat as much as you usually do."

"Don't count on it." Charlie wrinkled his nose at him as they exited Gringotts. "Romanian cuisine is also something of an acquired taste, but that doesn't stop me from gobbling it at the speed of light."

"I forgot your stomach was a bottomless pit."

At seven, after Bill and Charlie had eaten and visited the museum, they both hurried off to the Muggle airport to pick up the rest of the family at the airport. It was a rather challenging endeavor trying to not attract unwanted Muggle stares as they tried to find the appropriate gate. When they finally found the rest of their family, who all looked flustered, bewildered, irritable, and miserable, Bill decided that the other Weasleys shared his dislike for airports and all the hassle they entailed. His mother's face was the color of magma boiling deep beneath the earth's crust, his father was frowning at some sort of Muggle map of the airport which he was holding upside-down, Percy was sitting on his trunk with a book in front of him, though his eyes were not moving, and, in any event, they were not fixed on the tome before him, so he could not have been pursuing it, and Ginny, Ron, and the dreadful duo were all rubbing their ears, pained expressions etched upon their faces.

However, when she saw her eldest sons approaching, Molly Weasley brightened somewhat, and bustled forward to enfold them simultaneously in her arms, which meant that Bill and Charlie banged heads at such great speed that they both most likely lost several I.Q. points, not that Charlie would care about their absence.

"Hello, dears," she remarked as she squeezed them as though they were oranges that she was resolved to remove all the juice from. "I was afraid you would get lost. Muggle airports are so very confusing, as your dad has discovered." As if to prove the validity of her analysis, Mrs. Weasley nodded her head, indicating her spouse, who was still holding the airport map incorrectly.

"That's because he's holding the map wrong," Bill replied, smiling, as Charlie held up the map he had picked up at an information kiosk, as their mum released them at last. Truly, it was amazing that they had enough oxygen in their squashed lungs to breathe, nonetheless, speak or chortle. Then again, Weasleys were tough people.

Spotting a bit of English writing on the bottom of the page, realizing that he had, indeed, been trying to interpret an upside-down map, Mr. Weasely shook his head ruefully, and stepped forward to embrace his oldest children.

"How was the plane ride?" inquired Charlie as his father wrapped his arms around him, and his older sibling raised his eyes to whatever deity resided in the skies, appealing for mercy or patience, because apparently tactless Charlie had not noticed that the new arrivals did not seem overjoyed.

"The food was revolting, and I sincerely hope that nobody in my family ever has to consume such rubbish again," Mrs. Weasley declared. "The meat patty tasted like some terrible substance remarkably like the wheel of our old Ford Anglia, and the bun outside it was stale, suggesting that it had been kept for millennia. As for the carrots and the cookies served alongside it, they were certainly inedible, a product of some experiment gone horribly awry. How Muggles eat stuff like that is unfathomable, if you ask me."

"Well," hedged Charlie, glancing sidewise at his father, clearly afraid that his mum's frank assessment would hurt the man, "it― it could have gone worse, though, Mum."

Bill elected to step in to help his to help his brother along. "Yeah, not everyone can be as stellar a cook as you, Mum."

However, Mr. Weasley agreed with his wife. "It wasn't just the food that was awful, it was the whole flying experience. At the airport, we had to wait for an hour while everyone's baggage was checked. Several times, we had to use magic to hide our wands, and owls, and other magical equipment. And the pelevisions on the plane were hard to watch, and I couldn't hear a word out of them the whole time―"

"That's because you had to put on your ears the apparatuses the flight― no, fright― attendant gave you," explained Fred on an exasperated eye roll.

"I did!" Mr. Weasley insisted.

"Well, then you had to turn on the switch, and set the device to the appropriate channel," answered George. "It took us an hour to figure out that those buttons on the side of our chair were able to control the sounds we heard from the pelevision."

"Yep, and it didn't do us much good, either," grumbled his twin. "Our ears kept popping in the middle of major plot points, much to our aggravation."

"Ours, too," mumbled Ron and Ginny.

"Yes, the ear-popping syndrome was a rather agonizing and vexing one," confirmed Percy with a grave nod, as if they were talking about the symptoms of some deadly disease. "Additionally, I found that the high altitude, as I was unable to read on the airplane, had a negative impact on my brain's functioning―"

"Are you implying that your brain actually functions, Perce?" George interrupted with a smirk, incapable of resisting such an opening to taunt a family member.

"Because if you are, that's a major shock for everyone present," added Fred.

"Yeah, if your brain was working that's certainly front page news. Tell us everything― when did it start to function, five seconds before boarding?"

"Excuse me." Percy drew himself up to his full height haughtily, and Bill noted that he had grown a couple more inches since he had seen him last. "I attained perfect scores on all my O.W.Ls. If you do as well, I will be stunned, and quite speechless, I confess."

"Are you still bragging about your blasted O.W.L. results?" jibed Fred. "What are they, your only achievement?"

Before Percy could retort, George snickered, "You know what, Fred? Now I have a motivation to do well on my O.W.L.'s because I can't wait to have Percy shut up for once in his life. That might even be worth the humiliation of being seen studying in public, which is just so disgraceful."

"Studying is a sign of maturity, and is not in any way disgraceful, and your futures ought to be enough of a motivator for you to strive for academic success," snapped their mum, glaring owlishly at her identical offspring, "and you'll treat your brother kindly."

"Come now, everyone, let's relax," Mr. Weasley intervened, holding up his hands in a soothing gesture. "We're here to have an awesome time as a family, not to tear each other's throats and eyes out. Let's go back to the hotel, and drop our things off in the rooms― by the way, Molly and I share, as do Bill and Charlie, Fred and George, and Ron and Percy, and Ginny will sleep in the pull-out in the room Molly and I share. Then we can check out their magically color changing pool and magical game room. The virtual Quidditch should appeal to you, Charlie, Fred, and George. We'll have the times of our lives here, as long as we don't kill each other in the process."

"Of course we will," Bill backed this hastily, before the twins could insert a smart-aleck comment. "Chris and Mike always loved family vacations."

"So did Dan and Matt." Charlie nodded as they wandered off in the direction of the hotel.

The next morning after breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, the Weasleys set out to tour some pyramids that Bill insisted were relatively safe and family friendly as long as everyone stayed on the path cleared by the Curse-Breakers― if not, bad things, such as maiming or death might very well happen. When they had barely exited their hotel, however, a woman with powerful manly hands, elaborate, rigid curls that did not offset her heavily-jawed face well, and a vomit-inducing crocodile handbag stepped up to them.

"Are you Mr. Arthur Weasley?" she demanded of Mr. Weasley.

"Why, yes, yes, I am," responded the addressed, looking immensely confused.

"Lovely," the woman beamed without seeming entirely sincere. "Congratulations on winning our big drawing. I'm Rita Skeeter, from the Daily Prophet, of course. Now, you've already been good enough to explain how you used your winning to visit your son― which one is he?"

Mr. Weasley pointed to Bill, and Rita gave him a sort of two fingered wave, which he did not return, because something about this lady bothered him. She was so… artificial. She was definitely the serpent hidden under the flower, or buried in the grass.

"Lovely," Rita established, causing Bill to contemplate if it was the only positive adjective she employed in conversation. "Well, Mr. Weasley―" she reverted her attention back to Bill's father― "the public always loves to hear stories about family reunions. The only thing that could possibly improve the marketability of this story is if the son that was being visited was estranged from the family. Readers love tales of redemption." Once more, she eyed Bill. "I don't suppose you could pretend to be estranged, could you?"

"No," Bill informed her shortly, "as I harbor under the delusion that papers ought to report fact, not fiction."

For a moment, Rita struggled to conceal her annoyance, before smiling at Mr. Weasley again. "it would be lovely if we could get a photo of the whole family by that pyramid over there, so that readers can get an idea of the wonders the Weasleys enjoyed in Egypt, and will be inspired by the delight of a common man to enter our lottery next time." She jabbed her finger at a glass pyramid two shops away from them.

"But that's not an actual pyramid." Bill gazed at the reporter in unflattering incredulity. "Any readers who didn't gargle at the fountain of knowledge instead of drink from it will know that ancient Egyptian tombs were constructed from sandstone and limestone, not glass. That glass one is just for decoration, not historical accuracy."

"Yes," Rita smiled unpleasantly at him as she shoved him and rest of his family at the glass structure, "but, you see, the photograph will be in black and while, so nobody will know what the pyramid is made of when they read about it in the news."

With that, she arranged them, placing Bill, Charlie, Percy, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in the back, and Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny in the front, and instructed them all to put their arms about each other for the "family feel." Once she had set them up to her liking, she made them smile, and took a picture with her camera.

"Lovely," she ruled as she shoved her camera back into her crocodile hide purse. Then she spun abruptly to face Bill again. "You're the Curse-Breaker, are you not?"

"Yes," Bill answered, keeping his response as brief as possible, cutting off her reinforcement he hoped.

"We're doing an interview of Curse-Breakers," Rita remarked, "perhaps you could give me a few words on your career."

"Anyone whose interested in working at Gringotts can see the goblins that's all I've got to say about my exciting career at the moment, as I'm on vacation."

Unfortunately, before he could escape with the rest of the Weasley tribe, Rita hollered, "Oh, speaking of goblins, how is it so work with such gruff, terse species? Do you find it wears off on you?"

"It's never dull," Bill called over his shoulder, as he and the entirety of the Weasley clan rounded the corner. "Unpleasant nightmare of a woman," he mumbled under his breath to Charlie, who was walking beside him.

"Tell me about it." Charlie shrugged cheerfully. "Odds on that you'll be an estranged son when we read her article."

"Don't let Mum her you talk of betting, Char," Bill chuckled.

"There's a fate worse than death," Charlie shuddered.

"It's a death sentence you mean: death by lecturing, or strangulation."

"The worst way to be executed," returned Charlie, grinning from ear to ear.

"So barbaric even the Romans did not employ it."

Then they both dissolved into fits of laughter, and Bill realized with a sharp poke in the heart by the spear of love how much he had missed his younger brother, because the other young man was always so playful and their minds were always in sync. If they did not have the same blood flowing in their veins, he would have dubbed it unnatural.

"Mum, please, I want to go!" Ginny beseeched over breakfast in an Egyptian restaurant in Cairo. "What am I supposed to do while everyone else goes inside the pyramid? Count grains of sand until my hair goes gray? Wait outside and suntan until I die of skin cancer?"

"I've already told you that you can stay with the camels, and care for them while you wait for us to come out," Mrs. Weasley responded shortly, having stated as much at least twenty times in the last half hour.

"Sure, because that'll be so much fun. Perhaps I'll occupy the ninety-nine-point-nine percent of my cognitive abilities not engaged in such a stimulating task by disproving some of Dumbledore's uses of dragon blood, or, that failing, composing a light opera." Ginny speared her food irately with her fork. "You know, Mum, I didn't have to travel to Egypt on a stupid Muggle airplane to sit about and do absolutely nothing. I could have accomplished that just as well at home."

"You've done plenty during this vacation," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "Honestly, just because you've been forbidden to do one thing, that doesn't mean that you've done nothing whatsoever. Don't go acting all melodramatic, and turn a mountain into a molehill on me!"

Before Ginny could fire back, Bill decided to intervene on behalf of his little sister. "Mum, maybe you should let Ginny go. She's a big girl now. She can handle a couple of mostly disbanded Egyptian curses, especially if four magicians who are out of school, one of which, may I add, is a spectacular Curse-Breaker, is there with her."

"I don't think that's a good idea after what she's experienced," responded his mother immediately, and her daughter glared daggers at her. If looks were capable of homicide, Molly Weasley would have been a ghost, Bill thought with a tinge of amusement.

"There's no heir of Slytherin or monster of Slytherin in ancient Egyptian pyramids, I can promise you that," he commented wryly. When he noted that his sister was flushing as she stared down at her platter, he recognized with chagrin that his remark may not have been overly sensitive, and chided himself for the lapse. Obviously, the Chamber of Secrets was still a tender topic with her, not that he blamed her for that.

At this juncture, Arthur Weasley spoke up for the first time. "Bill, how about you and I go and wash out hands while everybody else finishes up, since we're the only ones done with breakfast?"

"I thought it was only girls who visited the bathroom in pairs." Bill arched his eyebrows at the man, wondering what was going on in his head.

"I can't read all the Egyptian signs. I'd hate to walk into the ladies room by accident," replied Mr. Weasley seriously as he slipped out of his chair.

Not deigning to answer as he sensed this was at least three-quarters a falsehood, Bill slid out of his chair, and accompanied his father down a corridor to the men's restroom. As soon as they were in the bathroom, and had shut the door behind them, Mr. Weasley sighed, "I have a confession to make."

"I thought it was only parents who loathed such declarations, but, to be earnest, I'm not a massive fan of them, Dad."

"Well, then, let's call it a draw, because I take no pleasure in telling you what I'm about to." There was a long silence in which the tap water Bill had turned on seemed unnaturally and unnecessarily loud to his highly attuned ears. At last, the senior Weasley resumed, "Your mum and I haven't told you and Charlie everything about the Chamber of Secrets."

"That's not a revelation, as I haven't been informed of anything except that Ginny's not worm food." As he established as much, Bill sprayed soap on his hands, and started to lather them, his eyes on the suds he was producing.

Mr. Weasley heaved a gigantic breath prior to taking the plunge, "It wasn't a Slytherin that was responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets. It was a Gryffindor, moreover a Gryffindor whom we all know very well and love."

"Who?" Bill frowned, certain that his dad could not be implying what he thought the man was suggesting.

"Ginny." Mr. Weasley struggled to figure out how to operate a Muggle paper towel dispenser as he spoke. "Your sister opened the Chamber of Secrets, and set the monster of Slytherin on all the Muggle-Borns."

"But Ginny wouldn't― she couldn't―" Bill faltered, unable to concoct a rational argument due to his horror. "She has nothing against Muggle-Borns, for heaven's sake!"

"Oh, I don't think she knew what she was doing." Finally having solved the paper towel dispenser issue, Mr. Weasley ended up with a handful of paper towels, and split the pile with his son, trying not to waste paper, since he had accidentally pulled out way to many. "Ginny was writing in a strange, sketchy diary that communicated back to her all year, and apparently You-Know-Who possessed her through it, and made her open the Chamber, according to Dumbledore, whose word I trust absolutely. After all, he was kind enough not to expel her. He said that older and wiser witches and wizards than our Ginny have been manipulated by You-Know-Who."

"Well, they have." Bill dried his hands and threw the towels into the wastepaper basket. "So, when are you going to tell Charlie?"

"I don't know." Reflectively, Mr. Weasley stared into the bathroom mirror poised above the sink. "I'm waiting for the right time."

"Guess what, Dad, there's never going to be a right time, if you don't make it," said Bill impatiently, feeling annoyed now that he had somewhat recovered from this unpleasant shock about his youngest siblings actions. "There's never going to be a brilliant opportunity to say that 'You're little sister attempted to murder Muggle-Borns, even though she had no blasted idea what the heck she was doing, because she was under control from You-Know-Who, whose still in hiding or whatever.' You just have to grit your teeth and do it."

"I guess," mumbled Mr. Weasley absently, still gazing into the mirror with a wide open stare.

A sudden, nasty suspicion rose inside Bill. "You weren't going to tell me, were you? And you don't have any intention of explaining what happened to Charlie, either, do you? You just want us to think that it never happened, is that it?" He couldn't keep the anger from coloring his tone, he just couldn't.

"We were waiting for the opportune moment."

There was a half answer that was worse than no response at all, in Bill's humble opinion. Sighing in exasperation, he threw the door open, and supplied over his shoulder, "Don't worry about waiting for your chance, Dad. I'll tell Charlie myself."

When he returned to the breakfast table, he was relieved to learn that Ginny had stalked back to the hotel room in a towering temper, because he did not want to face her when he had just received the terrible update that she had set the heir of Slytherin on people, and that she had been used by the most evil wizard to curse the planet. Still in a daze after the exchange with his father in which his illusion that his sister was an innocent girl was forever shattered like an egg making contact with remorseless concrete, Bill rode out to the pyramid with his family.

On the way to the pyramid, he nudged his camel back to fall into step beside Charlie. "Hey, mate, I've got something to tell you," he muttered.

"A secret?" Charlie's eyes gleamed. "Just like the old days, huh?"

"Actually, it's not exactly a secret as everyone else in the family already knows."

"You mean that you told everyone before me!" Charlie sounded stung. "But I thought I was your favorite brother. Oh, I see now, that's the lie you feed each one of your male siblings, and I wish just naïve enough to believe it."

"Don't go fishing for compliments, Charlie, it's rude, because you know perfectly well that you're my best brother, and you'll always be, unless you persist in acting this way, in which case, you'll rapidly become my least favorite." More than anything, he wished that he could keep the tone bantering, and light, but he couldn't. He owed it to Charlie to break the news, so he had to continue, even though it was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do in his life, "The reason everyone knows except you is because Dad didn't see fit to tell me what was up until this morning. If it's any consolation, you're the first person I confided in."

"I'm touched." Charlie's tone was extremely mocking. "So, slap down all your cards. What has the rest of my well-intentioned family been concealing from me? Be brutally honest, Bill."

"I have every intention of being just that." Taking a huge gulp of air, Bill burst out, "It was not a Slytherin that opened the Chamber of Secrets― it was a Gryffindor, a Weasley."

"The terror twins?" guessed the younger Weasley.

"I said one, not two," Bill reminded his companion, hating every agonizing second of this conversation. Oh, why did his brother have to be so thick at times like this?

"Well, everyone thinks of the twins as one entity, the Gred-Forge beast," mumbled Charlie defensively. Silence, then a tentative inquiry, "Ginny?"

"Yep." Bill forced himself to nod heavily, feeling as if he were a million miles away, completely separate from his body, locked in his own pain at his sister's actions.

"I don't get it." As he stated this, Charlie scratched his head, a bemused expression lining his face. "Why would she do that? Nobody in our family is prejudiced against Muggles."

"Dad said that You-Know-Who controlled her through her diary," Bill answered gravely. Staring off into the desert, he added more to himself than to his comrade, "I'm going to take her out shopping in the open-air markets when we get back, and see if I can't get her to confide in me about what she was thinking, if she was thinking at all, and what exactly happened. It probably will do her good to talk it out. It should get rid off some of the guilt that's got to be eating away inside her."

And, he thought grimly, it might just get rid of some of mine, for not being there for her. For not protecting her from herself, from the darkness inside her that had allowed her to become a creature that You-Know-Who could corrupt. For forcing her to talk to a diary when she should have known to write to me, instead. Yes, he had as much to repent for as she did. He had failed as a brother, and distance was no excuse, at least it was not in the heart, where such things weighed the most.

When they returned to the hotel after touring the tomb, which everyone agreed was fascinating if terrifying, and Bill dropped into the room Ginny was sharing with their parents to find her staring at a magazine about the Weird Sisters while she reclined on the pull-out, he was upset to see that she refused to look at him, pulling the magazine up to her face like a shield.

"Come on, tigress, don't be shy." Bill tried to ruffle her hair, although he recognized that it would aggravate her, as he wanted more than anything for him to respond to him, to acknowledge him, but she dodged him, and turned her back on him entirely, now scrutinizing the tan wall of the hotel room, as if it were the most intriguing thing in all of creation. "Let's go on a shopping spree together, shall we?"

"I'm not interested in shopping, and there's no point in shopping with a member of the opposite sex, as we'll want to stop and look at different things." Ginny's voice was as flat as a table.

"So you'd rather just sit about and do nothing," he teased, hoping to spark a retort from his fiery sibling. "It's odd. I could have sworn you were complaining at breakfast that you didn't get to do anything, and now you don't want to go out and do something. Either you're determined to be miserable, something life is far too short for, or I'm thinking of a different Ginny Weasley, in which case, I beg your pardon, fair lady."

"Don't pretend that you have any interest in shopping."

"Huh?" Bill hated how dumb he sounded, but he had not expected his little sister to be so quick on the uptake. Again, he had underestimated her world-weariness. Ah, well, he wouldn't make the same mistake three times, for he could not afford to do so.

"You heard me, Bill. Don't pretend that you had the faintest interest in shopping with me. Dad told you about― about the Chamber of Secrets after breakfast, and now you want to coddle me like everybody else, and more is the pity as you and Charlie were the only ones that were treating me normally, not like some delicate, dangerous specimen in a lab, and now that's going to change."

"I just want to go shopping, and I'll treat you to a lunch in an Egyptian café, tigress," Bill educated her steadily, placing a hand on her shoulder, and relieved when she relented enough not to pull away. "Although, I do admit that if you want to talk about anything that happened during your first year at Hogwarts― anything at all― I'll listen as well as a pesky older sibling can."

For the first time since the outset of the exchange, Ginny pivoted about to face him, a slight smile gracing her features. "I suppose that I could do with a new cloak, as my old one is fraying at the edges, and it's always nice to get a boy's opinion on my attire."

"I'm a man, I'll have you now." As he established as much, Bill drew himself up in mock indignation, and was rewarded when Ginny actually giggled.

They hurried downstairs to the lobby, and then exited onto the street into the main city, where they headed off to the open air market. As they walked toward their destination, Ginny began to chatter about her classes and her friends at Hogwarts. Wanting to keep her talking, Bill nodded and asked polite, interested questions. Finally, when they arrived in the crowded market place, and started ambling from stall to stall, examining the wares, Ginny muttered abruptly, "You know, I didn't want anyone to tell you about what happened, because I've always looked up to you, and I wouldn't want you to think less of me for what― what I did."

"I'm flattered to hear how much you care about my opinion, lioness, but you didn't have to worry about my thinking less of you. As Dumbledore so prudently observed, many wizards who are far more experienced have been tricked by You-Know-Who," replied Bill gently, being entirely honest, not having to inquire what she meant. "It's me that I think the less of, I should have sensed something was going on with you when you suddenly stopped corresponding with me. I should have protected you. I didn't. I failed. It's as simple as that, really, because I was being a selfish jerk."

Shaking his head, he stared off into the blazing Egyptian sun, not caring about the damage he was inflicting upon his poor, innocent pupils, if any part of him could be constituted as innocent, to conceal the tears that were pooling in his eyes. He would not fail her again by allowing her to see him cry. She needed to believe that he was strong enough to protect her, in case she still believed that he was able to do that after how she had been twisted into behaving by You-Know-Who.

"Don't say that, you're an excellent big brother!" Ginny was at her most vehement, her most adamant now, and Bill was reminded forcefully of their affectionate mother. In a milder tone, she whispered, "I'm just glad that nobody was seriously hurt, and that nobody died, and that I wasn't expelled. I don't know how I would have gone on living if I had hurt or killed somebody. I couldn't live with myself if I knew that innocent blood stained my hands."

When she whispered the last sentence, Ginny fingered a golden necklace that rested on a display in the stall before them without seeming fully aware of her movements.

"But nobody was hurt, or killed, and you weren't expelled, and you've learned your lesson, as did I." Trying to console her, Bill wrapped an arm around the adolescent girl's slender shoulders. "Besides, you would've found a way to go on living despite the guilt. Everyone finds a way of coping, because it takes a hell of a lot of nerve to up and die." He would not think about Sarah Jones' suicide now, because Ginny did not mean anything as drastic as that. She was just attempting to cope with the painful realization of the jungle inside her, something every teenager had to do at some point or other, even if they did not have to examine the crime of attempted murder.

Reaching up, Ginny grabbed his hand in her own surprisingly strong and callused one. "That's right, I would've gone on living, as I'm a Gryffindor, after all, and to seek a way to escape the guilt would have been cowardly, I think. Anyway, nobody did die, and we've both learned our lessons, even if I still insist that you did nothing wrong, and we'll go on living together."

"Yes, that's right, we'll go on living together," Bill beamed down at her, now feeling completely at peace again. As frequently was the case, he had been correct in his conviction that a discussion of the Chamber of Secrets would help them both ease the pain in their souls.

"Ooh, look at this charming, handsome earring with a manly fang on it!" exclaimed Ginny, pointing, and Bill followed her finger to an earring that he rather liked the appearance of, although the fang on it would cause his mum to go into spasms of horror, if the fact that her son had elected to wear an earring would not be enough to do that.

"I like it, too, tigress. You know, I think I'll buy it." As he made this determination, Bill waved over the man who ran the stand, who nodded, indicating that he would be over as soon as he was finished wrapping up a necklace for a lady customer.

"Mum will have your head, and mine if she founds out that I recommended it," laughed Ginny.

"Hey, you only live once." Nonchalantly, Bill shrugged his shoulders.

"And your life won't last very long now that you've purchased that fang earring," chuckled his sister, and Bill joined her in her expression of mirth, as the salesman approached him, and he ordered the earring wrapped up.

Bill had enough prudence to not pierce his ear so he could wear the earring while his mum was in the country and would see his new acquisition, and he made Ginny swear not to mention it, or he would hurl her out of a window.

Two days later, at supper in a resturant Ron proudly pulled a new Sneakoscope out of a shopping bag, after he had spent the afternoon shopping with Fred and George. "Look, what I got Harry for his birthday!" he shouted excitedly, blue eyes ablaze. "Isn't it cool? Harry will like it a lot. It'll tell him next time You-Know-Who is sticking out of the back of Quirrel's head."

Though the dreadful duo laughed at this pronouncement, all the other Weasleys looked wrong-footed as Ginny, blushing to the roots of her cloak of hair, stared down at her saucer, her expression cloudier than it had been since she had gone shopping with Bill in the open air market. Eager to switch the subject, Bill turned to Fred, who was situated beside him, and requested, "Please pass the salt. My soup needs more flavor."

"Consider it done, bro," Fred reassured him, passing the condiment. As he did so, Bill could have sworn he saw something small and black fall out of Fred's sleeve into his soup, and then he wondered if he was paranoid.

"Thanks," he responded, pouring a tad bit of salt into his soup, and then returning the salt container back to the center of the table. "Did you put something in my soup, Fred?"

"No, it was just your overactive imagination, mate." Innocently, Fred shook his head. At the same time, Ron's Sneakoscope began buzzing and whirring loudly, causing numerous waiters and patrons to crane their heads in the direction of the Weasley family, glaring at them for creating such a disruption.

"Ron, can't you do something about that thing?" snarled Mrs. Weasley, plugging her ears like everyone else in the restaurant.

"No!" Ron shouted back, shoving the device back into the shopping bag, which did little to stifle the noise. "Honestly, Mum, if I could, I wouldn't have waited for you to tell me!"

"Well, send it to Harry as soon as we get back to the hotel, son," ordered Mr. Weasley firmly. "None of us will be able to sleep with that Sneakoscope going off all night."

"Obviously that Sneaksocope is a fake one, sold to rob tourists of their money, and doesn't actually work," Bill concluded, waving a hand in dismissal as he took a tentative bite of soup. "There's no earthly reason why it should be going of now. You're so gullible, Ron."

"I'm not, Mr. Expert-On-All-Things-Egyptian," retorted Ron, glaring at him as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth at break-neck speed, "and, for your information, the Sneakoscope works just fine."

Rolling his eyes, Bill asked as patiently as he could, "Then why in the world has it not shut up since we sat down to eat?"

"I don't know, but there must be some logical explanation," Ron shot back, his ears becoming crimson as he reached his boiling point.

"Of course there is," Bill educated him calmly, eyeing his soup carefully, as there was definitely something weird flouting around in there. "That Sneakoscope's a cheap one that doesn't work, sold to you by some wizard who wants to get rich quick, and has sold his honor to the highest bidder long ago, which is why it keeps going off."

"Then how come it didn't act like this before dinner?" Ron's eyes narrowed.

"Because it was probably timed to go off after a certain amount of time or something."

"Yeah, because that's much more believable than the fact that it actually works." Sarcasm was etched into Ron's voice, and Bill decided not to reply. He would allow his youngest brother to convince himself of whatever he wanted about the gift he had purchased for Harry. Once he was done stating as much, Ron shoved himself away from the dinner table, gathered up the bag that contained the still buzzing and whirring Sneakoscope, and announced, "I'm done eating now. I'll go back to the hotel and send the Sneakoscope off to Harry before the rest of the restaurant's murder us for the racket we're making."

"I don't want you roaming the streets of Cairo on your own, especially at night," Mrs. Weasley informed her youngest son at once, looking appalled at the very notion.

"Bill does it all the time, I'll bet," scowled Ron.

"When you've become an adult, you can do the same," his mother retorted.

"Mother, as I have completed my supper, I would be more than willing to assist Ronald back to the hotel," Percy volunteered briskly, eliciting a glare from Ron, who did not care for the employment of his full first name.

"Well, that's all right, then," Mrs. Weasley agreed, "seeing as I know I can trust Percy to conduct himself responsibly."

"Indeed you can, Mother, indeed you can," affirmed Percy pompously as he rose. To Bill's consternation, the dreadful duo, who as a rule, by the way the only rule they adhered to, avoided Percy, stood up as well, and left with Ron and Percy.

"What's with them?" he asked, frowning, to the remaining Weasleys.

"They're probably planning to do another prank on Percy, or possibly Ron, but more likely Percy," reasoned Ginny, and Charlie nodded in confirmation of this theory.

"You're probably right." Nodding, Bill took a bite of his soup. Yuck, disgusting, something crunched in his mouth in a rather revolting fashion, and it would not stop, and it was starting to feel terribly like a bug...Pretending to cough, he pulled the dinner napkin up to his face, and spat out the mouthful into it. Gross. There were two of what appeared to be beetles lying there on his napkin, taunting him. Bile rose in his mouth, and he struggled to send it back into his stomach. When he was certain that he could speak without showering everybody amply with vomit, he commented, "Actually, you're wrong. They've wrecked their mayhem already, on me. They put beetles in my soup, those demons. I'll pound them for that later. That's why they left so quickly, because they didn't want me to notice while they were here, and that explains why Ron's Sneakoscope kept whirring like crazy. Maybe it's not a piece of junk, after all. Hey, it might even really work."

An opportunity for vengeance came sooner than he expected for the next morning, as they climbed onto their camels to ride out to explore some Egyptian ruins, the terror twins sidled up beside him, and Fred muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Bill, "Big bro, we'd like to recruit your help on a little problem we got going here."

"Oh, really, what problem would that be?" Bill raised a skeptical eyebrow, dubious of the dreadful duo's good intentions.

"Percy," George answered dryly. "He's just been made Head Boy, and he's acting even more bossy, overbearing, and utterly unbearable than usual."

"Therefore, all in all, George and I concluded after much study of the matter that it would be best if we didn't have to put up with him for a whole year at school," his identical twin interjected.

"Sorry, but I don't have any schemes to get you two expelled, if that's what you're asking." Smirking, Bill shook his head.

"That's okay, seeing as that's not what we want from you," replied Fred. "We want you to help us lock Big Head Boy―"

"Who?" interrupted Bill, although he already had a shrewd guess as to who was the recipient of this awesome new title.

"Percy, that's what he is, that's what anyone is if they are so bossy and boring that they get appointed to the position of Head Boy, which only increases their already inflated ego," George informed him.

"I'll take this fine opportunity to remind you of the fact that I was made Head Boy myself," Bill chortled.

"Believe me, we remember," George educated him, his tone crisp, "as we're still getting sick over it."

This remark was met with a glare from the Curse-Breaker. "Here I was thinking that you were going to ask me for a favor, but obviously, given your lack of flattery, I was mistaken."

After a moment's quiet, Fred confessed, "Actually, to be completely honest in such critical matters, my twin and I were seeking your assistance in locking Perce up in a tomb."

"We sincerely hope that you will seriously consider our business proposal, as we are sure that everyone involved, except perhaps Percy, will be enriched if you join us in the locking of Big Head Boy in a pyramid full of skeletons who are as dead personality-wise as he is," contributed George.

"I'm sorry, but I can't honor your request, since you put beetles in my soup last night," Bill grinned, thinking that revenge was indeed a dish best served with a smile.

"That was supposed to be a present!" Fred yelped.

"Yeah, the ancient Egyptians worshipped dung beetles," finished his double.

"But I'm not an ancient Egyptian," Bill informed them coldly, and spurred his camel, so that he could ride beside Charlie and chat about dragons and Quidditch with his closest brother for awhile.


	39. Chapter 39

Disclaimer: General rule here: if it seems like it's from Harry Potter, it is. If it appears to be my own invention (ie, Foulbreath, Rottentooth, or Louis, it is.)

Author's Note: This will cover some of Book 4 (of the _Harry Potter_ series, obviously, not _Paradise Lost_ or something.) Since lots of interesting stuff occurs in that book, I decided to divide it up into a few chapters. I think the segments feel natural the way that I have split them up. I hope you enjoy this first part. I tried not to repeat too much of J.K.R.'s _Harry Potter_ _and the Goblet of Fire_, because everyone, I assume, has already read it at least once, and she described everything much more masterfully than I ever could. However, if you feel like I am repeating, for lack of a better word, too much of what she does, tell me please by reviewing, and I will attempt to remedy it. Okay, I admit there are a few very slight sexual jokes, but I think its pretty hard to pick up on if you don't know what they are. (If you haven't had the "talk" yet. Or if you aren't a hormonal teenager like me, where just about everything can be seen in a dirty context. They're the sort of things that would fly over my nine year old sister's head, I promise you.) Congratulations if you read all this rubbish. You deserve a round of applause.

Reviews: Are always immensely appreciated, so drop me a line or more, please, if you have the time. Thanks.

Home Again

In early August of 1994, Bill was riding through the desert on camel back, returning to the Gringotts bank in Cairo with great heaps of treasure, trying to pass the time by playing goblin road games with Louis, Foulbreath, and Rottentooth, when Errol abruptly smacked into a rock formation in front of them. Barely a second later, the owl crashed onto the ground, sending up a puff of sand. Shielding his eyes from the cloud of sand with his arm, Bill dismounted, wiggled the letter out of Errol's beak, and placed the wretched creature gingerly on the camel's back so that it reclined against the camel's neck, which ensured that it wouldn't topple off as he continued to ride. After he had settled the unconscious Errol, Bill mounted his camel, and spurred it on. As he and his three comrades resumed their journey, he opened the letter, and read in his father's hand:

_Dear Bill, _

_I've managed to get us all prime seats at the Quidditch World Cup, which, as I'm sure you know, will be held in England this year! Who would have imagined that Ludo Bagman would feel so indebted to me for smoothing that whole issue with his brother, Otto, and that lawnmower with unnatural powers over, and who would've thought that he would feel so grateful that he would give me ten tickets to the World Cup? I certainly didn't, which is why it comes as such a delightful surprise. _

_Your mum says that she doesn't want to go, because she never was a fan of Quidditch, since it involved a bunch of people beating each other up on broomsticks, and she thinks she witnesses enough squabbling at home. Anyway, you and Charlie have tickets if you can get some time off. Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny are all going. By the way, we've also invited Ron's best friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, to accompany us, and spend the remainder of the summer holidays with us. Hermione has already said she would be happy to accept our offer. However, we have not heard back from Harry, which is strange. Perhaps we didn't put enough stamps on the note we sent by Muggle post, but you would figure that covering the whole front of the envelope, except for a miniscule amount of space where the address was placed, would be enough. Well, Ron's sending Errol with a letter, so that should resolve that issue, and it's not as if it really matters what Harry's aunt and uncle say about him going to the Cup. We're going to pick him up if he wants to go, regardless of what they say, but Molly's right that we should at least pretend to care about their opinion. _

_Anyway, send your mother and I an owl with details of when you will be coming, because we'll need to settle Fred and George in with Ron (and Harry, if he arrives by then), so that you and Charlie can share your old room. Sorry, Percy gets his own room, because he has work to do. I hope everything is going well in Egypt, and that you'll be able to secure time off to come and watch the World Cup. _

_Love, _

_Dad_

When he finished reading this epistle, he glanced up at Louis, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath, a massive grin on his face.

"Did Fred or George die?" Louis greeted his smile with raised eyebrows.

"No, but I wish you would," laughed Bill. "Actually, Dad managed to get the family tickets to the World Cup."

"That should be fun. Almost exciting enough to make up for the torturous experience of seeing one's family again," smirked Louis.

However, the goblins voiced different sentiments. "Entirely unproductive," growled Foulbreath in clipped Gobbledegook, "a waste of time and money."

"I don't understand why a human as productive as you, Bill, would insist upon wasting time and money, and hurting productivity," Rottentooth rumbled in agreement.

"Unlike goblins, humans need vacation time to recharge, and remain productive," Bill attempted to explain, also in Gobbledegook. "It's a fundamental difference between humans and goblins, and humans want to spend money in an enjoyable manner, rather than just delight in owning it, unlike goblins."

"Louis doesn't waste time by visiting his family," replied Rottentooth, still in Gobbledegook. "Although he does insist on squandering money on French champagne."

"I'm shocked that you would consider Louis a normal person," Bill responded in the goblin tongue, glancing slyly over at the older Curse-Breaker, who glowered at him. "He's so abnormal that he's borderline insane."

"I suppose it takes a lunatic to spot someone who's becoming infected with insanity," the man fired back.

At this, Bill only grinned, then inquired of his companion goblins, "So, do you think our head goblin will turn me down for some time off?"

"How can he?" scowled Foulbreath. "Plenty of Gringotts workers have approached him about getting time off to see the Cup, and he has not refused them, since it's almost regarded as an international holiday. That's the folly of you humans. Always creating excuses not to work, and hindering the acquisition of treasure while limiting productivity."

"And he wouldn't want to refuse you, anyway, because then you might leave the bank entirely, and you and Louis are too productive a team to lose," Rottentooth added. "Together, you two bring in kilograms upon kilograms of treasure for the bank. Still, that doesn't mean you don't hurt productivity while you leave and misuse time on this vacation of yours."

It transpired that Foulbreath's and Rottentooth's predictions were accurate, for the goblin head of the Gringotts branch in Cairo did not refuse Bill's request for vacation time, and granted him a holiday until September 3rd starting the next day, although he did grumble, sounding like Bill's companion goblins, that the time off was an utter waste of time and money. Recognizing that riches were the god of goblins, Bill remained somber throughout such a mumbled declaration, though it was rather amusing to hear how the gruff species always echoed one another. He imagined that goblins must feel the same way about humans, although they probably perceived humans as being lazy and stupid, not gruff and treasure-oriented.

After he was assured of time off, Bill sent Nekhebet off to the Burrow with a letter to his parents, informing them that he would be arriving tomorrow morning, and apologizing that he could not tell them sooner, but he had not been sure if he would be granted his request for a holiday sooner. Then, he packed up his trunk.

The next morning, at around ten thirty, as he was using his wand to carry his baggage up to the Burrow before him, Bill glimpsed a burly red-haired man doing the same thing on the opposite side of the hill.

"Charlie!" he hollered, hurrying forward to clasp the arms of his brother in greeting as he arrived outside the Burrow and set his luggage down lightly with a casual flick of his wand. He was relived to see that his younger sibling was still all muscle.

"Hey, man!" Charlie exclaimed, as he returned the grasp. Unfortunately, he was so strong that his grip was somewhat painful, and Bill had to pull away within seconds, or else his arms would be broken. "I was afraid you wouldn't show. I don't know if I could cope with a room all to myself, because ever since I can remember, I was sharing with somebody, whether it was you, or the other boys at school, or some of my co-workers. I might have to take up sculpting just to do something with all the extra space."

"You mean, to make a mess of all the space your room-mate would've attempted to keep tidy," teased his comrade. "Not that you would need to worry about that, as Mum would probably pair you with the dreadful duo."

"I'd Crucio myself to death." Charlie shuddered at the notion. "It'd be a less agonizing way to go." Then, his eyes widened abruptly. "Wow, you've got a new earring! Very nice."

"Damn it!" cursed Bill, his right hand flying to his ear, where, sure enough, he felt the metal of his earring. "Taking it out completely slipped my mind. Mum's going to have me drawn and quartered."

Before the other man could respond, the front door swung open, revealing a beaming Mrs. Weasley. "Hello, dears," she commented, squeezing them both tightly, despite the fact that even Charlie, who was of a shorter build than Bill, was taller than her. "I saw the clock move, and I knew you were here. It's great to see you both again!"

As her two sons assured her that it was lovely to see her again, Mrs. Weasley urged them inside, remarking, "You'd best get upstairs and unpack now. Fred and George have settled in with Ron, so you're both in your old room. By the way, if you spot anything that seems like it is a trick object manufactured by the twins for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, call me, but don't touch it."

"Do we look stupid? Why on earth would we touch anything that the terror twins purposefully left behind?" demanded Charlie, as he and his brother sent their trunks up to their bedroom after ascertaining that the stairs and hallway was clear of people.

"Of course not, dear, but I want you to be extra careful, because they've just declared that all they want to do is open a joke shop—a joke shop, I tell you— " Molly Weasley's voice rose slightly as she expressed this last bit, and it was plain that she held the occupation of joke shop manager in utter contempt—"which is why they feel that they can just get _three _O.W.L.s apiece. It's not as if they don't have the brains to do better, it's that they lack the motivation to do so."

"Ah, come on, Mum," Charlie groaned, and Bill privately agreed with him, "what did you expect from Fred and George? They've always been pranksters. What else could they possibly due besides open a joke shop?"

"They could find a niche in the wizard entertainment industry," supplied Bill. "After all, they've always been a laugh."

"True." Charlie bobbed his head gravely.

"I actually thought that they would go into the Ministry, just like their father and brother, Percy." Mrs. Weasley glared at both of them as she established as much. Bill battled the overwhelming temptation of rolling his eyes. His mum wanted all her children to go into a career in magical politics, and only one in three so far had done so, and yet she still harbored under the delusion that all of the remaining ones would, despite her lackluster success rate. It was rather tragic that she still had not figured out that her offspring would want to choose their own paths, and not follow the one she had selected for them, which was all neatly carved already, and was bound to be dull.

"Bill, what is that?" His mum's voice was more honed than a lance. Apparently, when she had glared at him, he had noticed his earring for the first time.

"What's what, Mum?" Bill decided that he would play innocent, even if that tactic had never scared her off before.

"Don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well that I mean what is that thing on your ear?"

"It's an earring, Mum."

"I know that," Mrs. Weasley snapped. Before Bill could ask why she had placed the inquiry in the first place then, she continued crossly, "Dear, you have to get rid of it at once. It's completely revolting with that horrid fang on it, and, besides men don't wear earrings."

"You're so outdated, Mum." Bill, Charlie, and their mother all whirled about, astonished, to see Ginny coming downstairs, smiling. "Guys can wear one earring now. It's cool."

"Yeah, and it goes with the dragon boots," amended Charlie, pointing at Bill's dragon boots, which had been a present from Charlie himself. When she spotted her eldest son's footwear, Mrs. Weasley let out a moan and buried her head in her palms.

"I see, well, I'm going to go and unpack now, then I'm going to throw myself together a sandwich," Bill educated her before she could recover from her despair and begin yelling, starting to make his way up the winding stairs, and pausing to kiss his sister on the forehead as he ascended them.

"Me, too," added Charlie, and Bill heard the sound of his brother's footsteps clattering up the steps in his wake.

When they reached the second floor landing, a head with horn-rimmed glasses set menacingly on his nose in a rather McGonagall-like manner, stuck out of Percy's bedroom. "What is all this ruckus?" inquired Percy irritably. Spotting his older siblings, his approach melted almost imperceptibly. "Oh, hello, Bill and Charlie. Welcome home. I would speak with you at greater length, but duty calls, and I must heed it's beckon. I've a report on cauldron bottom thickness to finish, you know."

"On cauldron thickness?" Bill repeated in disbelief, certain he had misheard.

"Yes, that's right." Percy nodded smugly. "It's a report for my job at the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Currently, I'm working with witches and wizards around the globe in a worthy attempt to standardize cauldron thickness. You'll find that some imported cauldrons are just a bit too thin, which is why leakages in England have increased at a horrifying rate of almost three percent a year."

"Oh, sounds fascinating." Apparently, Bill had not been able to keep the irony out of his voice, even though he had been endeavoring to do so, because Percy scowled at him, as Charlie snickered.

"I imagine you might think it unexciting, William, but that's only because you spend your life breaking ancient Egyptian curses, and you, Charles, spend your days trying to tame dragons! Therefore, the pair of you have definitions of excitement that are particularly harrowing and eclectic," snarled Percy, his cheeks tinged pink like spring carnations. "Both of you would do well to reflect that unless some type of international law is imposed in this matter, the cauldron market will be flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger everyone's welfare."

"Well, at least the plot is thickening, even if the cauldron bottoms aren't." Charlie rolled his eyes, unmoved by his younger sibling's avowals.

"I'm glad you realize the weight of this matter now. Please stop clattering up and down the stairwell now that you do, because it is rather challenging for me to concentrate when you persist in doing so. Thank you." His eyes still burning like coal, Percy slammed his door shut as soon as the last terse word escaped his lips with the precision of a knife in the hands of a Healer.

"We aren't clattering up and down the stairs, genius," muttered Charlie under his breath to Bill as they entered their bedroom, and knelt down to unpack their belonging, "we've only clattered up them so far."

"Perhaps we could sue him for libel," the other commented as he placed his shirts into one drawer on his half of the dresser. Changing the subject, he inquired, "So, you looking forward to the big match, huh, Char?"

"Have you emptied your brain recently?" snorted Charlie, as he threw his pants into a bottom drawer in his part of the dresser. "Of course I'm looking forward to the big game. It's going to be awesome to see it live, and, what's more, from the top box."

"I know, Quidditch Head."

"I only wish England had gotten through."

"They would've if you had joined their team," Bill reminded him.

"I don't care about them getting through that much to put up with being treated like dung." As he stated as much, Charlie's arms folded across his chest.

"It's your life, and you can do what you want with it." Showing he was not going to contest the point, Bill shrugged his shoulders, and Charlie removed his arms from his chest immediately. He continued, frowning, as he tried to recollect the Quidditch match he had listened to on the radio with Louis, "England went down to Transylvania, right?"

"Yep." Gloom shadowed his room-mate's tone. "It was a shockingly humiliating performance. Translyvania: three hundred and ninety. England: ten. I would have jumped off my broom if I was part of a team that sucked that badly. Mind you, Wales didn't do much better, as they were plowed by Uganda, and neither did Scotland, which got blown away by Luxembourg."

"I do listen to the radio, so you don't need to tell me," Bill informed him lightly.

"But you obviously don't remember as well as I do," snapped Charlie.

"Of course I don't, one of us has to fill their heads with useful data, not sports statistics." He grinned at his brother to let him know he was playing around, and then asked, "So, who will it be, Char, Ireland, or Bulgaria?"

"Who do you think it will be, Bill?" Arching his eyebrows, Charlie returned the inquiry.

"I don't know, but I wish it will be Ireland's victory." Bill shrugged. "Regional loyalty."

"Then I foresee that you will go home happy, as Ireland flattened Peru in the semi-finals, remember?"

Bill smiled. "You foresee, do you? You ought to have taken Divination with Professor Trelwaney, you know."

"My predictions, unlike that overgrown bug's, generally come true, especially when they relate to Quidditch," Charlie educated him haughtily, causing his comrade to burst out laughing.

"Bulgaria has Victor Krum, though," Bill remarked, not really arguing with his brother, just keeping him talking about one of his favorite topics, when he could breathe again.

"So what? Krum is one exceptional player, but he doesn't make up for a mediocre team. One excellent player does not outweigh a bunch of second-rates. I saw that my last few years at school." For a minute, Charlie's gaze clouded, and Bill was sure his sibling was reflecting on the agony of being Captain of a pathetic team that when it did win, only did so because of Charlie's skill, which meant that, as great a Seeker as he was, he had to watch Slytherin take the Quidditch Cup.

"Let's get lunch, shall we? I'm starved." Bill shoved himself to his feet, and Charlie mirrored him. Deciding not to incite Percy's ire, they walked as quietly as possible down the stairs.

When they arrived in the kitchen, they saw their mother greeting a girl with bushy, brown hair. "Hello, dear," their mum was chattering as they entered, "it's so nice to see you. Harry will be coming here tomorrow at around five, in case Ron hasn't already told you. Arthur has managed to get the Dursleys attached to the Floo network just this once. Anyway, Ron's upstairs in his bedroom, if you want to see him now, and you'll be sharing a room with Ginny. If you don't know which one that is, just ask Ron."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," the girl responded, nodding, as the addressed waved her wand at the lass' trunk, and sent it soaring up the stairwell, which made Bill immensely grateful that he and Charlie had vacated the steps a few seconds beforehand.

"Oh, it was nothing," Mrs. Weasley assured her. Catching sight of her two eldest sons, she performed an introduction. "Bill and Charlie, this is Ron's friend, Hermione Granger. She'll be staying with us until school starts. Hermione, Bill and Charlie are Ron's oldest brothers."

"Pleasure meeting you. It's nice to know Ron has friends. Any friend of Ron's is welcome here, as they will keep Ron occupied elsewhere," Charlie told Hermione as he pulled out bread, lunch meat, cheese, a plate, a glass, and pumpkin juice.

"Ginny and Percy tell me you're the brains behind all the Harry Potter adventures," commented Bill as he began using some of his brother's ingredients to concoct a sandwich.

"Did they really?" Hermione beamed in pride. "Well, that was nice of them. I suppose I do read a lot, and—"

They never got to learn what else Hermione did, because Ron's voice sounded from the foot of the stairs, interrupting her. "Read a lot? I've never met anyone who read more than you do, Hermione. If the world were suddenly free of books you would die of boredom, and there's no need for you to be modest about your brains. Everyone knows your the best witch in the year." With that, he snatched Hermione's hand, and tugged her over to the stairwell, as the girl flushed at being called the most talented witch in her year. "Come on, let's go upstairs now. You can waste time unpacking later."

"Do you think they like each other?" Charlie frowned as the adolescent boy and girl left, his eyes narrowed in the direction they had departed in.

"Possibly. After all, he did compliment her, she did blush, and he did seem in a tremendous hurry to be alone with her," Bill snickered.

Charlie's eyes glittered. "Maybe we shouldn't let them be alone. Bad things could happen."

"Don't be ridiculous," cut in Mrs. Weasley shortly. "They're just friends. I would think that you both would have your hormones in order by now."

"We do," Bill reassured her seriously.

"Yeah, they're the ones that don't." Charlie jabbed his finger up the stairs, implying that his comment was meant to be applicable to Ron and Hermione.

"I curse the fates that handed me so many sons," grumbled Mrs. Weasley as she began withdrawing potatoes and steak from the fridge. "Don't eat too much, or you'll have no appetite for my supper."

"Don't fret, Mum," Bill replied, smiling, "Charlie is always hungrier than a pig."

"This knife is aimed right for your eyes." Charlie raised the aforementioned utensil in a menacing insinuation.

"Mine's fixed on your heart."

The next day, shortly before five, Bill and Charlie, who were playing a game of Exploding Snap in their room, heard the twins, Ron, and Mr. Weasley descend the stairs at top speed. "They must be going to pick up Harry Potter now," Bill concluded.

"Yeah," agreed Charlie. Shaking his head, he confessed, "I still can't accept that Harry Potter is staying at our house, and I can't believe that he would choose Ron as his best friend."

"He must not have a very big ego, since he did," Bill reasoned slowly, "and he must not be very ambitious, since everyone knows that we're dirt poor."

"I'm liking the kid already," chuckled Charlie. "You know, I can't wait to meet him."

"Me neither. Well, we don't have long to wait."

"Hey, want to go down, and get ready to greet them in the kitchen?" suggested Charlie.

For a moment, Bill bit his lower lip, considering this, before he allowed, "Alright, then, but we've got to be cool about it, which means we can't make it obvious that we were waiting to meet him. We'll make it appear as though we were just hanging out playing a game of Exploding Snap and chatting in the kitchen when Harry Potter arrives." As he established this, he scooped up the deck of cards.

"Done deal," his brother responded as they exited their bedroom and hurried downstairs, ignoring Percy's shouts that they stop thundering down the staircase. When they entered the kitchen, they settled themselves across from each other at the table, and Bill commenced dealing the cards.

"Did you hear about what's happening at Hogwarts this year?" Charlie wanted to know as the other young man completed dealing the cards, and they both began examining and organizing their hands.

"Nah, let me guess, there's going to be a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Well, technically, yes, but that's not what's such big news. I think the job's cursed."

"Me too. Spill the beans, Char. Don't make me pound the secret out of you."

"As if you could. I was always stronger than you," scoffed Charlie, causing Bill to glare at him. "Have you ever heard of the Triwizard Tournament, by any chance?"

"Yes." Bill nodded. "I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_ –"

"I still can't believe you read that massive, most likely dry book," his sibling chortled.

Paying this interjection no mind, Bill continued, "The Triwizard Tournament was established like seven hundred years ago, or some number close to that as a competition between three of the best European schools of magic: Beauxbatons, the French wizarding school, Durmstrang, the Bulgarian wizarding school, and Hogwarts, our own fine British one, and the best of the best, obviously, because it produced me."

"No, because it produced Albus Dumbledore."

"Now that's a legitimate argument." Bill smiled, and then resumed, "Anyway, a champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. Every five years, a different school hosted the Tournament before the death toll became so dreadful that it was halted centuries ago. None of the attempts to restart it have been successful. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's about to return." Charlie spoke bluntly.

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Hogwarts is going to be hosting the Triwizard Tournament this year."

"How do you know this?" Bill stared incredulously at his kinsman.

"Work," answered the other simply. "We're going to be involved in the first task, you know, because they require—"

However, Charlie's sentence was interrupted midway through by Fred emerging loudly from the fireplace, laughing his head off. "What's the joke?" Bill asked, raising his eyebrow at the teenaged boy. "Whose soup has a beetle in it now?"

"Nobody's," Fred retorted witheringly. "That was so last year. However, the prank is food, more specifically, candy, related."

"I don't suppose you'd care to explain more." Waving his right hand about expansively, Charlie encouraged the twin to go on.

"Um, George and I brought along some sweets of ours that have special properties, in that they cause one's tongue to expand out of your mouth like serpent, which is why we call them Ton-Tongue Toffees, and I, erm, accidentally dropped them within reach of Harry's horrible and obese cousin Dudley," elaborated Fred, and his two older siblings, spotting where he was headed with this, roared with mirth.

In the midst of their laughing fit, George arrived in the kitchen via the hearth, lugging Harry's trunk behind him. When his twin stepped out of fireplace, Fred demanded of him, "So, did the Dud eat it?"

"I don't know." George shrugged. "Dad sent me off before I could find out." As he completed this last sentence, Ron stepped out of the fireplace, looking slightly windswept. Turning to his younger brother, George asked, "Did Dud eat the candy?"

"Don't ask me," responded Ron. "I left before I could find out."

"Well, we'll just have to wait until Harry gets here to find out," George drawled, plopping down next to Charlie.

They didn't have long to wait, for three minutes later, Harry toppled out of the kitchen fire, suggesting to Bill that he did not often travel by Floo Powder. Instantly, the boy with jet-black hair was besieged by Fred, who while offering a hand to help Harry to his feet, demanded excitedly, "Did he eat it?"

While Harry straightened, Bill took advantage of the opportunity to scrutinize the youth without being obvious about it. At first glance, the lanky lad did not seem to be the type to defeat the evilest wizard the planet had ever seen. He seemed essentially ordinary, except for glasses that appeared to have been broken numerous times, brilliant green eyes, and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead, the vestige of his first fight with You-Know-Who when he was a mere baby. When Harry stood up, Bill swiftly returned his gaze to the cards in his hands. Cool people did not stare, for heaven's sake. Luckily, Harry's attention was centered solely on Fred, to whom he said, "Yeah. What was it?"

When Fred replied that it was Ton-Tongue Toffee and that they had been waiting all summer for someone to test them on, everyone in the kitchen burst out laughing, understanding his implication. After he had recovered from his bout of amusement, Charlie, still grinning from ear to ear, held out hand to Harry, who took it, and shook it. Once Harry and Charlie had finished shaking hands, Bill also offered his hand to the Boy Who Lived.

Before he could say anything, however, his father Apparated besides George's shoulder, looking angrier than he had that time he and Bill had gotten into a shouting match regarding that exchange trip to Brazil. Apparently, his dad did not find the Dudley Ton-Tongue Toffee affair as hilarious as everyone else did. If Mr. Weasley was irate, Bill shivered to think what Mrs. Weasley would think of the twins' actions. Perhaps he should consider pitching in on the dreadful duo's funeral fund.

"That wasn't funny, Fred!" Bill's father roared, looking at the wrong, but nearer, terror twin. Personally, Bill disagreed with this assessment. Although he had not seen the effects of the sweet the twins had dropped in person, it sounded hysterical anyway. "What on earth did you give that Muggle boy?"

Wearing a malignant grin, Fred protested that he had not given the Dursley boy anything—he had merely dropped the sweets, and it was the fat boy's own fault that he gobbled them down. Technically, Bill thought that his brother had a legitimate point, but he doubted his father would listen. He was proven correct in this assumption when his dad snarled that Fred had dropped it intentionally, fully aware that the boy would eat it.

At this point, George was dumb enough to interrupt to ask how long Dudley's tongue got. Bill shook his head despairingly. It was just best to let his dad lecture. The man did not remain angry for very long, after all. For a minute, Mr. Weasley seemed to resist the overwhelming temptation to strangle George, before he snapped, "It was four feet long before his parents would let me shrink it!"

Imaging a tongue that was four feet long protruding from someone's mouth, Bill burst out laughing, despite the fact that he sensed that his dad would not appreciate this. Fortunately, Charlie, Harry Potter, Fred, and George all lapsed into fits of amusement. Their mirth only added fuel to Mr. Weasley's fire, and he resumed his lecture with new fervor.

"It's not funny! That sort of behavior seriously undermines wizard-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons—"

"We didn't give it to him because he's a Muggle!" Fred sounded outraged that his own father would think him a bigot.

"No, we gave it to him because he's a great bullying git," completed George with the twins' sense of justice, which was different in many ways than the average person's. Still, it was one of those quirks that made his twin brothers humans, not demons, Bill decided. As he contended this, George looked at Harry for support.

"Yeah, he is, Mr. Weasley," Harry backed the dreadful duo earnestly.

Unfortunately, Mr. Weasley was not to be pacified so easily. "That's not the point!" he stormed, and everyone else in the room flinched. "You wait until I tell your mother—"

As his father suggested this, Bill began planning a safe strategy to exit the Burrow, because he did not want his ears to be destroyed permanently by his mum's shouts. Sadly, he did not get very far in this endeavor, because his mother arrived in the kitchen at that moment, seemingly Summoned by her husband's remark, although it was far more rational to assume that she, with the instincts of a parent of seven, had been attracted to the source of the trouble by the shouting.

"Tell me what?" she asked, her eyes narrowed menacingly. For a minute, Bill felt his hopes that she would not explode rise, as she caught sight of Harry Potter, and beamed at him. "Oh, hello, Harry dear."

Bill's prayers for a quick resolution to the conflict, however, went unanswered as Mrs. Weasley demanded for a second time, a threatening emphasis in her voice, "Tell me what, Arthur?"

When he saw his father's hesitation, Bill recognized that his dad's last words had been a bluff. In the interest of keeping his own eardrums relatively intact, Mr. Weasley had obviously had no intention of telling his wife about what the dreadful duo had done to Dudley Dursley.

The awkward atmosphere in the kitchen was eased somewhat by the sound of two pairs of feet bustling down the stairs. Glancing up from the floor, which he had suddenly taken an inexplicable interest in, Bill realized that Ginny and Hermione Granger had entered the kitchen. While the two girls, Ginny blushing profusely because of her crush on the boy hero, smiled a welcome at Harry, which Harry returned politely, an action which sparked even more blood to splotch Ginny's cheeks, Mrs. Weasley repeated in her most testy, lethal tone, "Tell me what, Arthur?"

"It's nothing, Molly," Mr. Weasley tired weakly, and Bill made a mental note to sign his father up for some basic lying lessons. "Fred and George just—but I've had words with them—" Giving up entirely, Bill's dad sputtered into silence, as Bill shook his head miserably.

"What have they done this time?" persisted his mum. "If it got anything to do with Weasley's Wizard Wheezes—"

At this point, whatever divine being inhabited the heavens intervened in the shape of Hermione Granger, who cut in firmly from her position in the doorway, "Why don't you show Harry where he's sleeping, Ron?" Yes, Bill thought, this girl truly is a sharp one, because she has the sense to run away when an explosion from Mount Molly was imminent.

"He knows where he's sleeping, in my room, he slept there last--" Ron answered, and Bill rolled his eyes. His youngest brother clearly was not about to win any metals for intelligence, common sense, or survival instincts. How could he not know that it was best to escape any room his mother was in when she was in a towering temper like this? Did he enjoy being deaf in one ear? That must be it. At any rate, it was the most logical explanation.

Obviously, Hermione did not want to lose her chance to escape, for she replied pointedly, "We can all go."

Ron finally understood at this point, and he began edging out of the room with Harry, Hermione, and Ginny.

"Yeah, we'll come too," George commented quickly, as he and Fred made to tip-toe out of the kitchen with the other four.

However, their mother would have none of it, for she bellowed, "You stay where you are!"

Cringing, Fred and George halted immediately, eyeing their mum like wary deer.

"Dad," Bill said sharply, and his father turned to face him, looking mildly put out, "I'm going to go set up some tables in the garden. It will be much too crowded in here, and it's really nice outside, isn't it, Charlie?"

"Yep, yeah, it is that," Charlie avowed instantly, and Bill had the definite sense that his younger brother would agree to any statement at the moment. "I'll go help you, shall I? It can be a real nightmare getting stuff out of our shed."

With that, he and Charlie practically fled out the door and into the lawn. As they headed toward the shed, they heard the fading yells of their mother berating the terror twins. When they reached the shed, they withdrew their wands from their pockets, and Summoned two tables from the melee within.

"Seems like an awful waste of time and energy to move them manually," reasoned Charlie as the tables landed with a dull thump in the emerald summer grass.

"Agreed." Bill waved a wand at one of the tables, causing it to sail into the air, and directed it toward the other end of the garden with another indolent flick of his wand.

Grinning playfully, Charlie pointed his wand at the other table, and sent it up into the air as well. Glancing sidewise at his sibling in a sly manner, Charlie made his table bang into his brothers. Accepting the challenge, Bill forced his table to ram into Charlie's with more intensity. The friendly magical competition escalated in ferocity and volume, as the two wizards directed their tables to collide with greater and greater amounts of energy, determined to knock the other out of the air. The whole affair was not entirely unproductive as the tables were inching toward the place where the Weasleys and their two guests would dine.

In the middle of this game, Bill suddenly heard whoops, cheering on both him and Charlie. Looking over his shoulder along with his closest sibling, Bill saw that Fred and George were standing about ten or twelve feet away from them. Smiling, Bill and Charlie refocused on their task.

A few moments later, Bill was finally able to make his table hit his brother's with enough strength to knock one of its legs off. The resultant resounding bang elicited a clatter from overhead. When he gazed back at the Burrow, Bill saw Percy sticking his head out of his second floor window. "Will you keep it down?" hollered the third oldest Weasley child.

Bill couldn't resist the opportunity to poke fun at his pompous sibling. "Sorry, Perce," he called back, smirking. "How're the cauldron bottoms coming on?"

"Very badly," Percy responded peevishly, apparently noting the other's sarcasm, and slamming his window shut.

Turning his attention on Charlie now, Bill mouthed, "I win," and his companion shrugged in agreement. Chuckling, they both conducted their tables safely to the ground, settling them neatly side by side. With a further wave of his wand, the senior Weasley reattached the broken table leg, and conjured two tablecloths, which, upon another flick, laid themselves on the table.

Once the tables were properly prepared, Ginny, whom Bill had not even noticed enter the garden, stepped forward and began to place platters around one table, still giggling about the scene she had just watch unfold, while Hermione, pale in the face, but with a suspicious curve to her lips that suggested she was amused, started setting saucers down on the other one. Seconds later, Harry and Ron, who seemed to have only just arrived outside if their alarmed expressions were any indicators, began slapping down utensils.

Bill smiled. He loved being home, because even setting the table could become a family affair, and that was a good thing.


	40. Chapter 40

World Cup

Author's Note: Sorry I took so long to update.(If you're as juvenile as my English teacher, you'll perceive my lack of updating as an intentional snub, the way I evilly engineered to have a college visit, which I scheduled weeks in advance, the same day we were peer-editing our research papers, something she told us about yesterday, but that I obviously should have foreseen, and therefore deserved to be lectured about.) School has been hectic, and I had to work on the rough draft of my research paper. I hope I do as good a job with this chapter as I did with the previous one. Anyway, just so you know it is possible to write a chapter in a loud classroom when a sub is present. However, I will promise nothing as to the quality of aforesaid chapter. Fleur makes a special appearance for reviewer lady clark of books. (By the way, I am a Bill/Fleur person, sorry to any Fleur haters out there. Personally, I don't mind Fleur, and I feel a bit of sympathy for her.)

Happy Halmark day. (Cough, cough.) I mean Happy Valentine's Day to everyone who has a sweetheart. If you're like me and you don't, that's cool, too. To all Americans, Happy President's Day. Enjoy your three day weekend.

Reviews: Please feel free to comment. I respond to all signed reviews. Without any further ado, here we go:

Much too early the next morning, at eleven thirty, Bill was shaken awake by his mum. Once his eyes had adapted to the bright light streaming like fingers through the blinds, he shoved himself up on one elbow, and glanced around blankly. On the other side of the room, he could see a bleary-eyed Charlie emerging from his covers. Sighing in resignation, Bill shoved off his blankets, and crawled reluctantly out of bed. Satisfied with their progress, Mrs. Weasley departed.

"What's the point of a vacation if I don't get to sleep late?" demanded Charlie irritably as he pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt at random from his side of the dresser, and threw them on haphazardly.

"I suppose that we ought to be grateful that we can Apparate and don't have to get up at the crack of dawn like the others," Bill grumbled, not sounding particularly appreciative as he selected his clothes and donned them with considerably more care than his younger brother.

After they had dressed themselves, Bill and Charlie wandered downstairs into the kitchen, where Percy was sitting at the kitchen table, engaged in a monologue about his work with his mother, as he scribbled away on a piece of parchment. "Hello, dears," commented Mrs. Weasley during a break in her third son's speech as her older two children joined them.

"Oh, good you're finally up," Percy observed seriously, nodding a greeting at the new arrivals. "I was afraid that Mum would have to come up to get you two again. Well, anyway, I'm at the end of my paragraph, so we can Apparate now."

"Dear, they might want to eat breakfast," Mrs. Weasley reminded Percy, glancing inquiringly at Bill and Charlie.

"No, thanks, Mum." Bill shook his head. "It's too early for breakfast."

"That's silly," answered his mother. "It's almost twelve."

"Exactly, that's the point, we'll just wait for lunch," Bill replied.

"Well, if you're sure, dear," sighed Mrs. Weasley. Then she glanced at her second-born. "What about you, Charlie?"

"I'll be fine," grunted Charlie, as he scooped up a peach from the fruit bowl on the counter as he and his brothers walked over to the door, waving good-bye to their mother as they departed. "Dad and the others will probably have lunch prepared by the time we get there. I've always preferred lunch food to breakfast food, anyhow." With that, he shut the door after him, and the three oldest Weasley children Disapparated.

Within seconds, they had rematerialized in the middle of a wood. The breeze carried the sounds of laughter and chatter to them, and the smell of witches and wizards cooking meals. Following the aromas and sounds, the three Weasleys wandered out of the woods. As they neared the campsite, they saw a wide variety of tents had been erected. Some of the modest wizards had added chimneys, bellpulls, and weathervanes, while some of the more arrogant magicians had built little palaces. Although he was no expert at Muggle camping, Bill was pretty confident that Muggles probably didn't camp out like this…their tents were probably more humble…whoever owned this campsite better not check up on the campers too much, or the magical world might be discovered after all these centuries.

"Look for two tents that seem completely undecorated," bossed Percy as they hurried past a group of wizards conversing in rapid Bulgarian, "because Dad had to borrow a pair of tents from Perkins, so they're nothing special."

"They're they are!" Charlie's keen Seeker eyes had spotted a small sign hammered in the distance with the words "Weezly" etched upon it. "Yet another person misspells our name."

Now that Charlie had pointed it out, Bill wondered how he could possibly have missed the cluster of red-heads around a struggling Muggle fire. Squinting into his glasses, Percy took an extra moment to absorb the scene before declaring, "I think you're right."

"Of course I'm right― I'm always right." Charlie rolled his eyes as they set off to join the rest of the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione. As they reached the Weasley campsite, they saw that Mr. Weasley was cooking eggs and sausages with a frying pan, a look of merry confusion on his face, which suggested that he was happy to be blundering through what was most likely a simple process for Muggles around the globe. Hermione Granger was leaning over him, obviously trying to assist him as much as possible.

"Just Apparated, Dad," Percy announced loudly as he, Charlie, and Bill sat down on a log by the fire, causing Mr. Weasley to start and drop two slightly burnt sausages on the ground. To Bill's disgust, Ron picked them up, brushed the dirt off them, and began munching on them. As Bill turned away from this revolting scene, Percy continued, "Ah, excellent, lunch."

"I suppose you could call it that, yes," Mr. Weasley agreed, dumping sausages and eggs onto the platters Hermione was holding up for him. Soon everyone had a plate of food before them, and they were all talking excitedly about the match, and making predictions about what would happen.

However, when they were halfway through their brunches, Mr. Weasley leaped to his feet, waving and grinning at Ludo Bagman, the Head of the Magical Games and Sports Office at the Ministry, and the man who was responsible for getting them such awesome seats for the Cup. Bill knew for a fact that the man his father was greeting so exuberantly was Ludo Bagman, because there was simply nobody else on the surface of the planet it could possibly be, unless someone had stolen a lock of Bagman's hair and swallowed a vat of Polyjuice Potion. Ludo was wearing his old Wimbounre Wasps uniform, and Bill was one-hundred percent certain that most Muggles had never seen anyone wearing Quidditch clothing.

"Arthur, old man," Ludo Bagman panted as he bounced over to the congregation by the Weasley campfire, "what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming…and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements…Not much for me to do!"

In Bill's opinion, Ludo did not cultivate the image of someone who would have been eager to take action even if there was something for him to do. And there did seem to be something that a Ministry employee could be doing at the moment. After all, a band of haggard Ministry witches and wizards had just barreled past, pointing incriminating fingers at the distal evidence of a magical fire that was shooting violet sparks almost thirty feet into the air, which belied Ludo's words.

Bill was distracted from the racing Ministry workers as Percy elbowed past him, his hand outstretched, obviously attempting to make a good first impression on Ludo Bagman. Man, his little sibling was ambitious, he thought with amusement as Mr. Weasley, beaming humorously, introduced Ludo to Percy, the twins, Ron, Charlie, Harry, Hermione, and Bill.

"So, would you fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?" demanded Ludo, jingling his pocket full of gold enticingly as he made this inquiry. Lord, the man must have been hit with the Bludger a hundred too many times. The Weasleys did not have much money to gamble with. It would be much more profitable to look for gamblers elsewhere.

He was proven correct in this assumption when his dad agreed, "Oh…go on, then. Let's see, a Galleon on Ireland to win?"

"A Galleon?" Ludo looked disappointed and confused, as if there was no point in gambling if one took such a small risk. Pivoting to face the others, he added, his eyes bulging out of his head, "Very well, very well…any other takers?"

"They're a bit young to be gambling," Mr. Weasley cut in before anyone could reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Bill saw a mutinous glint shimmer in the eyes of the terror twins, and he braced himself for an unpleasant display. "Molly wouldn't like―"

That was the understatement of the century. Mrs. Weasley would not just dislike her children gambling, she would hate it, and she would make her opinion known. Any money won would probably not be kept from her for very long.

"We'll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and three Knuts," stated Fred firmly, as he and George quickly pulled all their money, and Bill shook his head in despair, thinking of how horrible it would be if the twins lost their bet and all their savings, "that Ireland wins― but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch." That was a long shot. Heavens, couldn't they have just made a nice, clean, fifty-fifty bet like everyone else? "Oh, and we'll throw in a fake wand," added Fred.

Beside him, Bill felt Percy stiffen, as he hissed, "You don't want to go showing Mr. Bagamn rubbish like that."

However, Bagman did not seem to think that the Weasley twins' invention was garbage. On the contrary, his face lit up even more, so that it was positively incandescent, as he snatched the wand out of Fred's outstretched hand. When the wand emitted a squawk that called to mind a chicken's and was transformed instantly into a rubber duck, something that made Bill appreciate the wizarding prowess of the dreadful duo even if they had only scrapped half a dozen O.W.L.s combined, Bagman roared with laughter. If he thought that was amusing, he should spend a day at the Burrow. He would probably die of a fit of giggles within his first five minutes. As Bagman exclaimed that it had been years since he'd seen such a convincing fake wand, Percy's face froze in a mask of horrified disapproval, which almost made Bill burst out laughing. This urge was only increased when he glanced across the campfire at Charlie, and saw that his younger brother was biting his lip to keep from chortling. Bill quickly averted his eyes.

"Boys," Mr. Weasley mumbled to Fred and George, "I don't want you betting. That's all your savings. Your mother―" Will probably kill you both, Bill supplied mentally.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Arthur!" boomed Bagman, rattling his pockets once again, in what goblins would describe as an attempt to tempt someone into wasting money. "They're old enough to know what they want! You reckon that Ireland will win, bit Krum will get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance…I'll give you excellent odds on that one…We'll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we?"

As he established as much, Ludo whipped out a notebook and quill from the pocket of his Quidditch robes, and jotted down the twins' names and their bet.

"Cheers," said George cheerily, as if he and his twin had not just made a foolish bet, as he took the fragment of parchment that Bagman proffered, and shoved it into his pants pocket.

After that, Bagman stayed with them for about ten more minutes, sipping tea, which Percy prepared upon his request, complaining about his Bulgarian counterpart, who he couldn't understand, and, when Mr. Weasley asked, about Bertha Jorkins who seemed to have disappeared in Albania. Then, Percy's employer stopped by briefly to tell Bagman that the Bulgarians wanted to add another twelve seats to the Top Box, and did not want a pair of tweezers, as Ludo had thought. When Mr. Crouch arrived, to Bill's shame, Percy made a complete idiot of himself, fawning over the man, and bowing as if he were in a medieval king's court, something that became even more humiliating when it was revealed that Crouch did not even know Percy's surname. Ludo seemed about to drop the bomb about the Triwizard Tournament when Crouch cut him off, insisting that they both had to meet with the Bulgarians. After that, the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione had to entertain themselves.

Not long after Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman had gone off to placate the Bulgarians, Bill and Charlie wandered off to see if they could find any of their old school friends. About twenty minutes into their walk, the younger Weasley brother met with success, for, sitting under a massive Irish flag, were his old school friends, Dan and Matt, who worked doing Bill-didn't-know-what in England. Grinning, Charlie raced over to his two best mates from Hogwarts, who greeted him warmly.

Great, now he really needed to find Chris or Mike, Bill realized with a pang as he watched the old friends reunite. Waving to Charlie, he continued briskly on his way. As he hastened down the path, he passed a group of French girls, who were chattering in their native tongue. It seemed like they were discussing the match to come, for the word "Krum" occurred with startling frequency. He could not explain why he was even bothering to listen to their conversation, given that his knowledge of French was limited to a handful of phrases, foods, and curses employed by Louis. If he was going to eavesdrop, he could at least have done it to people who he could understand…hmm, maybe his interest in their affairs was able to be attributed to that girl― or woman― young woman, he decided in the end. Her lovely silvery-blonde hair, which was glittering with a light of its own in the sun, was blowing sensually in the wind, and, as she laughed at something her friend had said, all of her sparkling pearly teeth were revealed.

But he had better things to do than stare at females. Forcing himself to stare at the ground until the afterimage of the stunning French girl faded in his mind, Bill continued to amble down the path, fortunately not banging into anyone on the teeming pathway. He was less lucky in that he did not meet either Chris or Mike as the afternoon wore on, and finally, when dusk approached, he decided to admit to defeat, and headed back to the family tents.

As he made his way back to the tent, his blood racing like a stallion in his veins because he was looking forward to the upcoming match so much, he felt that the summer air itself was charged with anticipation, and that the Ministry had obviously surrendered to the fact that blatant magic would occur everywhere on the campsite. The salesman that clogged the grounds were perhaps the most flagrant. Every few feet, one of them would Apparate, something that would surely send any watching Muggle into cardiac arrest, bearing their extraordinary merchandise that no doubt would also serve to alarm any Muggle that happened to stumble through the Ministry precautions onto the site. Bill purchased a luminous green rosette to represent Ireland, although he regretted this decision a little when he discovered that the voice that was chanting the names of all the members of the Irish team was squeaky. Ah, well, with any luck the match would be an exciting one, and the noise of the crowd would serve to drown out the aggravating voice issuing constantly from the rosettes. Either that, or he would place a Silencing Charm on the blasted thing.

Wending his way through the shoppers and the merchants, Bill finally reached the Weasley tent, where he saw that the rest of the Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry were already congregated there. Everybody except the dreadful duo, who had no money since they had entered into the bet with Bagman, had bought souvenirs from the salespeople. Ron, whose loyalties apparently were divided, had purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a jade rosette, but was also clutching a miniature Krum that was pacing surly across Ron's outstretched palm. Hermione, Harry, and Ron all had Omnioculars strung about their necks, which had probably been purchased by Harry, who, according to Gringotts gossip, had been left with a large store of gold after his parents' death. Like Bill, Charlie and Ginny had pinned emerald rosettes to their clothing, and Mr. Weasley had his hands full with an Irish flag, which certainly would be difficult to negotiate to the stadium.

About five minutes after Bill joined the others a booming gong resounded over the field from across the wood, and red and green lanterns suddenly burst into life, causing Bill's eyes to squint in the new, sharp illumination. It took a moment for his eyes to adapt enough to perceive that the lanterns lighted a path to the Quiddith field.

"It's time!" his dad shouted, looking for all the world like a five-year-old at his first carnival. "Come on, let's go!"

Obediently, everyone fell into step beside Mr. Weasley. As they entered the wood, following the lantern-lit trail, Bill fell into step beside Charlie. "How are Dan and Matt doing?" he asked his brother over the tumult of thousands of beings shouting, laughing, or singing with their neighbors.

"They're doing well," Charlie answered in his Quidditch Captain voice, which was what he fell into in bustling crowds such as this. "They still think I'm crazy to work with dragons, but there you are."

"I see that they're still perfectly sane, then."

"Oh, be quiet. I've come across decomposed bodies less offensive than you are. Anyway, Matt and Dan are both betrothed."

"To who?" Bill arched his eyebrows curiously.

"Matt's betrothed to Kelly, and Dan's engaged to Tara."

"Both of them are marrying their Hogwarts sweethearts."

"Mum says loads of people do that," Charlie reminded him.

"That's only because Mum did that herself," his sibling pointed out. "Remember, Mum and Dad were dating at school."

"How could I possibly forget? Mum tells us that every time 'A Cup of Hot, Strong Love' comes on." Charlie shuddered. "Bit gross to think about when it's your own parents."

"You're so immature. If you'd gone out with more girls yourself, you'd be more comfortable with the notion."

"Tonks was enough for me," scowled Charlie. "In fact, she was more than enough for me. I mean, everything in our relationship was progressing well, or so I thought. Then when she hears I'm going to Romania, it's over in a fit of waterworks. Females aren't worth the effort."

"Wait until you see one of them that is off the thermometer hot," responded the other wisely, recalling with a grin the French girl he had glimpsed earlier. "I'll bet you'll shatter land speed records in pursuit of her."

Charlie opened his mouth to ask who the latest heartthrob was. However, he was cut off when they arrived in the shadow a of a massive stadium, and his breath was cut off, much to Bill's relief, as he did not know the name of the girl whose picture was currently ingrained in his mind. Personally, Bill could relate to his brother's astonishment. Though they could see only a fraction of the immense golden walls that surrounded the pitch, Bill could estimate that at least nine houses could fit comfortably inside it.

Seeing their awe, Percy, who was behind them, commented knowledgeably, "It seats a hundred thousand. A Ministry task force of five hundred has been laboring on it all year long. Every inch of the structure has intense Muggle Repelling Charms on it. If Muggles get anywhere near here, they suddenly remember urgent appointments that they mustn't be late for. I imagine that it must be dreadful to think that you're running late for a very important meeting, only to find out that you don't even have one that day, or something equally horrible and humiliating."

"Yeah, imagine if that happened to you with a meeting about the width and sturdiness of cauldron bottoms," teased Charlie, as they all joined the queue by the nearest entrance.

"It would be terrible, I daresay," observed Percy stiffly, straightening his back, so he could stand at his greatest height.

Before Charlie could taunt him further, Mr. Weasley showed the Ministry witch at the door their tickets, and everyone's breath was robbed once they beheld the interior. The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in a rich purple. Dazed, they climbed the stairs as the hordes of witches and wizards around them gradually thinned as they reached the levels where their seats were. Finally, Bill and the rest of Mr. Weasley's party reached the top of the stairwell, and arrived in a small box that was constructed at the highest point of the stadium, and was poised exactly halfway between the two golden goalposts. Twenty purple and gilt chairs were situated in two rows. As he filed into the front row behind Charlie and Percy, taking care to arrange it so that he would be next to the former not the latter, Bill looked downward and was instantly grateful that he was not afflicted with vertigo.

Below him, he could see, as if he were riding on the back of a gigantic eagle, what must have been a hundred thousand witches and wizards taking their seats, which rose in concentric levels around the oval-shaped field. Everything was covered in a mysterious golden light, and the grass of the pitch seemed to be smoother than a flower's petal from Bill's lofty position. At both ends of the field, were black billboards that flashed advertisements out to the crowd. As Bill watched, he could see an invisible hand writing on the board, and then a second later erasing the advertisement that surely had cost a thousand Galleons to have put up.

However, Bill's survey of the stadium was prematurely halted when Charlie elbowed him in the robs, causing Bill to rethink his seating selection. Perhaps Percy would be a better neighbor, after all, because at least he did not nudge family members when he was excited, like Charlie did.

"What?" he demanded, jabbing his elbow into Charlie's stomach in retaliation.

"Remember that a display from the team mascots will precede the match."

"I forgot, actually." Bill grinned. "It'll be fun to see the veelas that mascot for the Bulgarians." That would serve to erase the pretty girl from his brain.

"You dare to call me immature when you make comments like that," scoffed his companion, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing some leprechauns. Maybe they'll drop some money."

"It's all fake," Bill answered by rote after a career in the Wizarding bank, and years of working alongside goblins.

"So? The people who work at the bar in Romania won't know that."

"That's a criminal offense, Charles," snapped Percy, who had apparently been eavesdropping on their conversation. "It is illegal to pass off fraudulent money as real currency. It is punishable with up to thirty years in Azkaban, for your information."

"It only is if I get caught," Charlie reasoned cheerily. "Besides, little brother, don't forget that eavesdropping and being a know-it-all also carry thirty year sentences apiece."

Before Percy could scold his older sibling for making light of the criminal justice system, Bill cut in, "Char, use your brains. There's a reason God gave you them instead of rocks, you know. The fake money would disappear before then. And, Perce, don't be a nag. Charlie's too stupid to plan a real crime. It takes brains to become a criminal mastermind."

Percy was unable to reply to this, because at that moment an important and stuffy looking wizard entered the top box, and he rose to bow and shake hands with the wizard. After that, this habit of jumping up in greeting became a habit for Percy until at last the Minister of Magic arrived, and, to Bill's disgust, his little brother bowed so low that his nose almost touched the ground, which meant that he resembled greatly a house-elf. During this bow, Percy's glasses dislodged themselves from his nose, and broke on the ground. Flushing to the roots of his vibrant hair, Percy repaired them, and sat back down his seat, looking as though he wished he were in Canada at the moment. Mingled with the humiliation, Bill realized, was a glint of envy. Following his brother's jealous stare, Bill saw that Cornelius Fudge was greeting Harry in a paternal manner.

Without his being aware of it, Bill's eyes narrowed. Something about this man irritated him. His manner was just too cheery, too hearty. It wasn't natural. It was clear that it was a mask, and it was obvious that the man was every inch a politician, and Bill had never been a fan of politics.

Once he had finished sucking up to Harry, the Minister of Magic explained to his Bulgarian counterpart, "Harry Potter, you know." He enunciated each word as if he was convinced that the other statesman was a simpleton, rather than someone who just spoke a different language. "Harry Pottter…oh, come on now, you know who he is…the boy who survived You-Know-Who…you _do_ know who he is―" The last gem came out triumphantly, as the Bulgarian Minister noticed Harry's scar, pointed at it, and began jabbering away to his attendant in his native tongue.

As this point, Bill lost interest in the scene, and opened his program instead, hoping that it would provide him with some interesting tidbits about the coming match. However, he didn't get far in this endeavor before he was interrupted by Ludo Bagman's roaring voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"

Bill joined the screaming and clapping of the rest of the spectators. Mr. Weasley and hundreds of others waved their flags, as discordant national anthems blared throughout the stadium. Bill was right. He could no longer hear his annoying rosette in the din. As he realized this, the billboard wiped away the advertisement about Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and now announced the score, which, of course, was zero to zero.

"And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!" Ludo continued, as the right side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, displaying their support of Bulgaria, clapped and hollered its approval.

After Ludo made this announcement, a hundred veela floated out onto the field, as comfortable on the ground as a sleek sea creature would be in the fathoms of a deep ocean. To Bill's chagrin, he discovered that the veela were unlikely to erase the memory of the girl he had seen earlier from his memory, for the veela bore a shocking resemblance to the girl, or maybe she bore an astonishing resemblance to them. Possibly she was part veela. Heavens, this was folly. He had to stop watching those dancing veela, but he just didn't want to. It would take an awful lot of effort to close his eyes right now. And why should he want to do that? The veela were such a charming sight.

As this thought occurred to him, the music halted abruptly, and the veela, who were obviously the ancestors of the beautiful French girl, ceased dancing, leaving a hollow in Bill's chest. He recovered himself when he realized that angry yells were flooding the stadium. Apparently, the men in the crowd did not want the veela to depart. But go they did, and Ludo Bagman shouted at the irate masses to welcome the Irish National Team Mascots, something most of the stadium did not seem to feel inclined to do at the moment, as the Irish mascots were to blame for the leaving of the veela.

In the next moment, though, their tune would change, for what looked deceptively like a massive green and gold comet zoomed like a flash of lightning around the pitch. After completing one circuit around the stadium, it split into two smaller comets that each hurtled toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, tying the two blazing orbs together. As the multitudes ooohed and aahed, the rainbow faded into the night sky, and the shooting trails of light reunited, taking the form of an enormous shamrock. The shamrock soared into the air, and flew over the stands, as millions upon millions of fake coins dropped out of it, thrown out by the leprechauns.

Most of the crowd did not seem to comprehend the fact that the money was fake, for many people were scuffling with their neighbors in greedy attempts to get their paws on more gold, while others were rummaging beneath their seats, searching frantically for Knuts or Sickles. It was rather comical, even though he knew that many people would be deeply depressed when their newly attained wealth suddenly vanished quicker than a fair weather friend in a hailstorm.

At this point, the shamrock dissolved as the leprechauns settled themselves onto the end of the field that was opposite to the veela, all sitting cross-legged like Native Americans around a campfire.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome― the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you―Dimitrov!"

As his name was called, a crimson-clad figure on broomstick, moving so fast he was burred, shot out like a cannon onto the pitch from an entrance far below. Wild applause from the Bulgarian fans greeted him.

"Ivanova! Levski! Vulchanov!" Each player was welcomed with cheers from the Bulgarian supporters as he flew out onto the field. "Aaand _Krum_!" An especially loud roar of applause greeted this.

"And now, please greet― the Irish National Quidditch Team!" called Bagman. "Presenting―Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaand _Lynch_!"

Along with all the other Irish fans, Bill clapped as each of the names was shouted. Besides him, he could hear Charlie clapping and stomping his feet exuberantly as the referee was announced to no applause.

The referee kicked open the Quidditch crate as he mounted his own broom, and the Quaffle, the Bludgers, and the Snitch were released. The next thing Bill knew, the Chasers were tossing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman had trouble calling out their names before they had passed it off to someone else, or had it stolen from them. Within ten minutes, Troy had scored for Ireland, proving the superiority of the Irish Chasers. As he generally was with all things relating to Quidditch, Charlie was correct in his assertion that Krum made the Bulgarian team, much as Charlie had made the Gryffindor team during his last few years at Hogwarts.

The Irish Chasers were a superb group, for they cooperated seamlessly, their movements so well-coordinated that they must have been as proficient as Dumbledore at Legilimency, which was why, within ten more minutes of their first goal, they had scored twice more.

After that, the match escalated in brutality, which made Bill grateful that his brother had not pursued a career in Quidditch after all, because the Bulgarian Beater had taken to whacking the Bludgers as violently as humanly possible at the Irish Chasers, which performed the Irish from performing some of their best moves. Finally, a Bulgarian Chaser managed to score, which meant the veela commenced dancing, and Bill was again reminded of the pretty French lass yet again.

A short while later, Krum and Lynch plummeted through the Chasers at what might have been the speed of light. Like a majority of the crowd, Bill gasped in alarm. Charlie must have heard this, because he mumbled, "Relax. Krum's feinting."

"But they'll crash, surely," Bill muttered back, his eyes riveted on the two diving Seekers.

He deserved partial credit for this analysis, because, at the last second, Krum pulled out of the dive, and spiraled off in the opposite direction, while Lynch smashed into the dirt with a dull thud. Bill groaned with the rest of the Irish fans. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny hanging over the side of the box, looking horrified as mediwizards came forward to tend to Lynch.

Picturing her falling to the ground, and landing as limp as a rag doll, Bill reached forward, grabbed her wrist, and tugged her back. Numbly, she complied, as Charlie reassured her, "He'll be okay. He only got ploughed, which is what Krum was after, of course."

"I know that, I'm not stupid," snapped Ginny, blushing as she returned to her seat. "Just because I'm the youngest, it doesn't mean I'm the dumbest."

As she established as much, Lynch got to his feet, to cheers from the Irish supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and soared back into the air. His revival reenergized his team, it seemed to Bill, for once the game started again, the Irish Chasers moved into action with skill unrivaled thus far. Fifteen minutes later, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals.

This meant that the match became still more brutal. Bulgaria received a penalty for cobbing Mullet. This became a rather complicated affair, for the angry veelas, incited by the gloating of the Irish, began to dance seductively, which made the referee lose his head. Once he was slapped back to himself by a mediwizard, the humiliated and furious referee ordered the veela to leave the stadium. The veela refused, and the Bulgarain Beaters were soon engaged in a spat with the referee over this.

"I'll bet this won't end well," Charlie remarked sagely. "Arguing with a ref is never a good tactic. I won't be surprised if Bulgaria gets more penalties for itself because of their idiot Beaters."

As he stated this, the referee gave two short blasts of his whistle, ruling that Bulgaria had two penalties now, and the disgruntled Bulgarian Beaters returned to their brooms. After this, the game became appropriate for a gladiator fight in the Roman Coliseum. Although both teams' Beaters were behaving without mercy, the Bulgarian Beaters were especially willing to make contact with humans with their clubs, resorting to troll-like tactics. When Dimitrov was so bold as to soot straight at Moran in an attempt to knock her from her broom, Bulgaria earned another penalty.

The next thing Bill knew, the mascots of both teams were embroiled in a bitter conflict, and the veela were revealing their descent from birds, and Bill was hoping that his French girl was not related to them after all. Even the Ministry wizards had little success in separating the brawling mascots.

As the match continued unabated, Bill forced his attention back to the game. Moran scored again. Quigley broke Krums's nose, something that went unnoticed by the mediwizards. The next second, Krum was diving through the air like a giant bird of prey, somehow managing to navigate through all the blood on his face that freckled the air around him as he dove, following the Irish Seeker Lynch… then he was nose to nose with Lynch, then he was overtaking Lynch―

"What is he doing?" Bill screamed at Charlie. "If Krum catches it, the match ends, and Bulgaria looses."

"Obviously you can count on one hand the number of things you know about Quidditch!" Charlie shouted back, glancing at his brother irritably, because he hated to be interrupted in the middle of a good Quidditch match by what he deemed as "stupid" inquiries. "He knows that his team can't win―the Irish Chasers are too good. He just wants to end it on his terms. Now, shut your trap! Damn, it you made me lose sight of the Snitch!" He glanced frantically about, searching for a flicker of gold. Bill had imagined that his sibling's keen Seeker eyes would alight on it immediately, but apparently they didn't, because he called Bill a number of names that he would not have used if his mother was in earshot, and bellowed down the row, "The Snitch, where's the Snitch?"

"He's got it―Krum's got it―it's all over!" Harry hollered back. With his Seeker training, he obviously had seen the Snitch when everyone else had missed it.

"You made me miss the best part!" Charlie snarled at Bill as the scoreboard blared the net results of the match, taking many people, who had been captivated by the fighting mascots by surprise.

"Sorry." He meant the words, because he had not wanted his sibling to miss what would be one of the more exciting moments in his life. "You could've ignored me, and answered me later."

"Excellent theory. You won't mind if I put it into practice for the rest of the week, then?" As Charlie responded, the Irish did a lap of honor around the field.

Then the awards were given out, and both teams were applauded, and then Fred and George demanded their money from Bagman. Then they were all heading back to the campsite, discussing the match avidly among themselves. It transpired that Charlie was unable to refrain from yammering on to his older brother, and anyone else within earshot, about the splendor of the match.


	41. Chapter 41

Midnight Madness

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter, but I do own a nice fuzzy bunny rabbit, which is almost as good.

Author's Note: This is my first real battle scene in this fic, so I'd appreciate feedback on how it turns out. (I actually am immensely grateful for all feedback I receive, but when I feel uncertain about how I pulled something off, I'm especially thankful for an outsider's opinion.) And, for all Bill/Fleur fans, we get another glimpse of her in this chapter, because I just can't resist.

Reviews: Wow, last chapter I got the most reviews ever! Yay! Anyway, please read and review. I don't get paid for this, so reviews are my only salary, and I'm so happy when I get one. I laugh and think (or say, if nobody is around to look me in a psych ward), "Yahoo! People actually enjoyed it/didn't think it was terrible!" Now I will shut up so you can read the story without my interruptions.

When they finally separated from the singing hordes that were being circled by airborne, gleeful, cackling leprechauns, as they arrived outside their pair of tents, Mr. Weasley ordered, "All right, everyone, bedtime. Good night, girls." As he established as much, he pointed Ginny and Hermione into their tent.

Looking slightly disappointed, Hermione pivoted, preparing to retreat into the tent she shared with Ginny. However, Bill noted that Ginny did not seem willing to comply without a fight. "Oh, Dad, do we have to go to bed now?" she groaned, fixing beseeching doe eyes on her father.

"Yeah, we want to talk about the match," added Ron.

"It's no good for me to go to bed now—I'll just yammer on at the top of my voice about the match for at least another hour or two until I get the excitement out of my system," reasoned Charlie.

"Nobody will get any sleep at all, anyhow," clinched Fred as his twin terror bobbed his head affirmatively. "You might not have noticed, but we aren't surrounded by the quietest beings in the world."

Bill could see that his father was relenting, for he faltered, "All the same, we've got to get up early, if we don't want to squander hours waiting to catch a Portkey."

"We can catch up on sleep when we return to the Burrow," Bill argued, spotting his dad's hesitation, and pressing their advantage. "Most people sleep better in their own beds, I've heard."

"Fine," sighed Mr. Weasley, "although none of you will tell Molly about this, if you like your head attached to your neck. Mind you, I'm only giving in because everyone else in this campsite is being so noisy and inconsiderate, and so you won't be able to get to sleep at all, anyway. However, you will each only get one cup of cocoa before you all hop into your beds without another word of complaint." With that, he unzipped the boys' tent, and gestured for Ginny and Hermione to enter. Then he, Harry, and the rest of the Weasleys walked into the tent.

They all settled themselves around the table, cozily jumbled against each other, as Mr. Weasley mixed them all up mugs of hot chocolate. As Bill's dad placed cups of the boiling beverage before everyone, their excited, agreeable replays of the game changed slightly in nature, focusing instead on Mr. Weasley and Charlie, who ended up in a spate about cobbing that, while protracted, was not unfriendly.

It all started when Charlie asserted, "If Ireland hadn't won, I would have to risk sounding like a sore loser when I tell you that about half of the fouls committed by Bulgaria went uncalled."

"I'm sure that the Irish got away with foul play as well, Charlie," Mr. Weasley reminded him fairly as he seated himself in the empty chair to Percy's right.

"Of course they got away with some things—that always happens in Quidditch." Charlie waved his left hand, dismissing this contention, while he raised the steaming mug to his lips with his right. "But Ireland didn't play as foully as Bulgaria did. Dirty tactics were half the strategy of the Bulgarian team, particularly the Beaters, and the other half of the strategy was comprised solely of Viktor Krum."

"What fouls went uncalled that you found so offensive?" Mr. Weasley asked, swallowing his cocoa, and Bill shook his head, thinking his dad foolish to engage in a disagreement with Charlie about Quidditch. There were precious few things his brother did not know about the sport, however little he knew about anything else save magical creatures.

"Cobbing for starters," replied Charlie briskly. "Dimitrov cobbed Moran to prevent her form catching the Quaffle that Troy had passed to her, and Levisky cobbed Mullet, so she couldn't score, because she dropped the Quaffle since he hit her with his elbow."

"You might indeed be correct on the first count, but as for the second, you're wrong." Mr. Weasley shook his head, as everyone around the table stopped their conversations midway through, and focused on the debate between him and Charlie. "I saw your supposed cobbing, and, while it may not exactly have been fair, it was not excessive use of the elbows."

"If intentionally whacking her head with his elbows wasn't excessive, then you're definition must be different than most people's," Charlie retorted.

"But generally cobbing entails hitting the other person's arm, not their head," Mr. Weasley contested.

"Maybe, but all the rulebook says is that cobbing is excessive use of the elbows, that's all. Nothing is said about where the elbows are supposed to make contact to be regarded as cobbing."

"Perhaps not, but it's plain that it relates only to the arms, and that the rule was created so that arms would not be hit by opponents' elbows to interfere with catching or holding the Quaffle."

"I forgot that you would know all about the context in which the rule was written, seeing as you were alive when Quidditch was invented, Dad," smirked Charlie, causing Fred and George to snort into their cups of hot chocolate, and Bill to grin broadly. His younger sibling was horrible sometimes, but hysterical. "Anyway, the context in which the rule was written matters not when it comes to interpreting the written words. The words are all that matters—Damn it!" He broke off cursing, as hot cocoa spilled all over the table, staining his shirt sleeves, since he had rested his elbows on the table during the course of the argument.

Rolling his eyes at his brother's reaction, Bill languidly whipped out his wand, and cleaned up the mess with a casual flick of it. "Don't cry over spilt cocoa," he educated Charlie seriously, earning himself a glower from the addressed. Ignoring this, Bill searched the room with his eyes, trying to flush out the culprit who had knocked over his or her drink.

It did not take him long to detect the one responsible: Ginny had fallen asleep, her head in her arms, as she rested her face against the smooth wood of the table, her auburn hair covering the surrounding surface. Without his being aware of it, Bill grinned. His little sister was always so sweet, so innocent-looking when she slept, although she would hate him for thinking it, because she was determined to be tough when she was awake. Well, she had to make up for her strength by being vulnerable sometime, just like everyone else did.

"That reminds me, everybody has to get to bed this instant, or we'll all fall asleep at the table," Mr. Weasley commanded, sounding firm now as he gently shook Ginny until she awakened. Then he sent her and Hermione off to their own tent as Bill and the rest of the males started to change into their pajamas and climb into their bunks. As he slipped into the bottom bunk underneath Charlie, Bill listened to Charlie recount the match once more before he drifted off to sleep to the sound of his younger brother's snores.

However, he was shaken roughly awake much too soon for him to appreciate it. He was prepared to tell his dad to leave him alone as the tent was not even filled with the weak illumination a dawning sun would provide, when he realized that the man hovering over him was looking frantic. A second later, as Mr. Weasley shook Charlie, who cursed as he sat bolt upright and banged his head on the tent, Bill noted with a twisting sense of foreboding that the noise that had engulfed the campsite had shifted from benevolent to malignant. The singing of the Irish had been usurped by wails, screams, and hundreds of fleeing feet. He shuddered, reminded of the days when You-Know-Who had reigned supreme in England. But he couldn't be back. Dumbledore would know if he was. His Death Eaters had just had too much to drink, and had decided that nothing would top off an evening better than a Muggle and Muggle-Born hunting excursion, and they were wasted enough not to care about getting caught and locked up in Azkaban it seemed. Disgust filled him, and he had to move, he had to do something, or else he would vomit, and he would be helpless to save whoever was endangered by the drunken bigots, and that was unacceptable.

As this occurred to him, he hurried out of bed along with Charlie and Percy. While the three of them began to change into clothes, Mr. Weasley, who was awakening Ron and Harry, both of whom apparently were deep sleepers, snapped, "Just throw them on over your pajamas, like I did."

"No way, Father, for people must be able to see clearly that I am from the Ministry," answered Percy haughtily as he tossed robes over his head.

"And I want to die looking cool, not in pajamas, if die I must," responded Bill, joking grimly. "By the way, if I do perish, I don't want to be buried in my pajamas, either."

"And I want my elbows free for cobbing," from Charlie.

However, their father ignored their protests and nervous jests as he shoved Harry and Ron out of the tent, and raced off to wake Ginny and Hermione. A minute or so later, Bill, Charlie, and Percy dashed out of the boys' tent, wands out, ready to fight for the Ministry against the drunken Death Eaters. As they exited their tent, Bill spotted out of the corner of his eye Ginny and Hermione rushing out of the girls' tent, pulling coats on over their nightdresses, and he was relieved when he saw Fred or George grab Ginny's hand and drag her towards the woods with the other teenagers in tow. She and the others would be safe in the forest.

As this reassuring thought occured to him, he saw the French girl from earlier running towards the woods with her friends, shouting, "My God, help us." Even when she was scared, she was incredible looking, Bill thought, for she moved with a natural grace, and her hair whipped behind her with a life of its own, and a light of its own, for that matter, because it was even more amazing, even more glistening in the night than it was in the day. Her silver hair did not so much reflect the luminescence of the moon, as it seemed that the moon had sliced itself neatly into slivers, descended down to the earth, and attached the strands to her scalp, though her hair did appear to be a lot silkier than the moon...

He regained his wits as she disappeared into the trees, and he scolded himself for being so easily distracted, and cursed her for being so beautiful that he could not resist the temptation. He had to go and fight the Death Eaters, or they would keep advancing, and his brothers and sister, and that French girl could be hurt, and that was unacceptable. He had to protect the good and the beautiful things in this world against the evil and ugly ones. It was that simple.

This impulse was strengthened when he noted that the masked crowd of tightly packed wizards with their wands pointing straight upwards were moving slowly, like a deadly cancer cell through the field, and Bill's conviction that they were Death Eaters was given more credibility, for only Death Eaters went out in masks. Nobody else had reason to be ashamed, which meant that nobody else had a reason to hide their faces from the rest of the world. And they certainly had a decent reason to be ashamed of themselves, for high above them four struggling beings were contorted in grotesque shapes as they were floated along by the knot of malicious wizards, who were laughing at the sight. Two of those flying figures seemed very small, which suggested that they were children.

Bill couldn't watch this anymore, or he would go crazy, and hate himself for not saving these people for the rest of his life. With his two brothers alongside him, and his father in his wake, he charged into the fray, battling his way through the fleeing masses, who were all attempting to escape from their tents before the Death Eaters blasted them. A few minutes later, they found themselves face to mask with the Death Eaters, and, ducking a Stunning Charm, Bill cast a Full-Body Bind at his attacker, who, because of the influence of alcohol was slow to respond, which meant that he was unable to defend himself, and toppled to the ground.

As the fight wore on, Bill found that he was separated from Charlie, Percy, and his dad, and the other Ministry wizards, and he feared, seeing how thin they were spread compared to the Death Eaters that there might indeed be too few of them. But he could not let such negative thoughts impede him. With this in mind, he sent a Furnunculous Curse at the nearest masked wizard, who dropped his wand, clutching his face instead, and dodged a Jelly-Legs one, a Stinging Hex, and another Stunning Charm. He transfigured the wand hand of one Death Eater into a sea urchin, which effectively disabled that foe temporarily. Then he shot an Impediment Jinx at a neighboring Death Eater.

As he did so, a spell, he wasn't sure exactly which one it was, or from whom it originated hit his right arm, and it commenced bleeding profusely.

"God damn you to hell!" After that, he urged the unknown Death Eater, who seemed to have been dueling with someone else and whose spell seemed only to have made contact with Bill by chance, to have loads of sexual relations using a word not utilized in polite conversations, as agony swept through his upper arm, almost causing him to drop his wand reflexively. By some miracle from the God he had most likely just offended by using His name in vain, he managed to still this impulse in time, and he instantly began berating himself for it as he shoved his arm into his left hand, and shot a Disarming Charm at a Death Eater who was closest to him, and who seemed to be trying to take advantage of his weakness, like a vulture attracted to a dying animal.

This purchased enough time for him to recover, before he was locked in combat with another pair of Death Eaters. Fortunately, this battle was destined to be short for Bill had just deflected their Stunning Spell and Full-Body Bind Spell back to them when both of them Disapparated suddenly.

"Cowards," he spat out the word, which from the mouth of a Gryffindor was the most condemning of all. "Can't even fight like men. Flee instead, even when they outnumber us at least four to one."

"It's not that," a Ministry witch who was not so far away from him now that all the Death Eaters had Disapparated, and who was facing in the opposite direction, her wand still poised to fight, and her mouth agape, shouted back, "it's _that_!"

Pivoting, Bill faced the woods once more, and saw a skull with a snake hovering like a ghost over it. He shivered, since he knew that the Dark Mark was only raised by You-Know-Who and his supporters after they had committed murder, and he recognized that, based on the terrified reactions of the Death Eaters, it had not been one of them who had sent it into the air. So who had?

Aloud, he hollered back only, "I'll have to hex whoever sent that up, because they did us no favors!"

"Why not?" the Ministry witch inquired as she bustled past him.

"Because they made the Death Eaters Disapparate," Bill responded shortly, as the pain in his arm surged again now that the battle was over, and, grimacing, he Conjured a bit of cloth, which he wrapped around his bleeding arm, and he fell into step beside the woman.

"I fail to see how that is a bad thing." The witch eyed him suspiciously.

"We couldn't unmask them, which means we couldn't send them to Azkaban, which means that when they get drunk again they'll decide that they want to have another reunion like this," Bill returned, hoping he did not sound as frustrated with her single-mindedness and lack of foresight as he felt.

"We'll deal with that trouble when it arises, if it does at all. For now, it is enough that the Robertses' are fine, and are having their memories modified at this very moment." The woman pointed at a group of Magical Reversal Squad members who were clustered around the Roberts family now, apparently modifying the family's memories.

"Good night," Bill sighed, giving up on her, and hurrying back to his own tent. He had to see that Charlie, Percy, and his father had survived their duels, and he wanted to be assured that the twins, Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione had all returned safely from their haven in the forest.

When he entered the tent, Charlie, who had a massive rip in his shirt, raced up to him. The younger man seemed to be on the cusp of embracing him, before he noticed Bill's injury, and exclaimed, "You're hurt!"

"What could possibly serve as a possible follow-up to that statement I wonder: water is wet, or something equally insightful?" Bill teased him, unable to explain how happy he was to see his brother in good condition, and settling for not saying anything of the sort at all.

"Be quiet, or I'll give you another injury," snapped Charlie, but he didn't sound angry, but rather concerned. His coffee eyes were somber as they focused on the make-do bandage Bill had affixed to his arm. "That won't do at all, you know. It's covered with blood. I'll get you something else. Wait here."

As he disappeared into the bedroom, Percy burst into the tent, his nose sporting copious amounts of blood. "Hello, Bill. Nasty fight with a load of barbarians," he panted as he bustled over to the sink, and grabbed the small hand towel that rested beside it and used it to stem the flow of blood flooding out of his nose. "Who else is back so far?"

"Just Bill and I," Charlie educated him crisply as he emerged from the bedroom, bearing a bedsheet. As he established this, he plopped down in the seat beside Bill, and started wrapping the sheet around his brother's arm. When his sibling tightened the sheet, Bill greeted his teeth to keep from crying out, because he would not display any weakness around Charlie or Percy.

Just when Charlie had finished bandaging his older sibling, the dreadful duo arrived with Ginny, and Bill felt some of the tension in his chest release. As the three newcomers sat down in the vacant kitchen chairs, Bill examined them critically. To his relief, they all appeared to be unhurt, though they were ashen-faced and had a wide, open look about them that indicated this night would not soon be erased from their minds, if, indeed, it ever would be. In their turn, the three younger Weasleys present appeared to take comfort in the fact that their older brothers had not been severely injured in the fray. After all, worse injuries had been the result of innocent accidents at the Weasley household, something that the terror twins deserved a lot of credit for.

For a few moments, the six of them just waited in silence together, relishing the quiet, and the fact that they had all been reunited, before Charlie mumbled, "I wish that Dad and the others would return."

Everyone chorused agreement, and silence engulfed the tent again, before they heard shouts, this time not threatening, but inquisitive, coming from the outside world, and Charlie leapt to his feet to investigate. They all saw him stick his head out of the tent and absorb the scene. Then relief washed over Bill as they heard him call into the darkness, "Dad, what's going on? Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the others—"

"I've got them here." Bill suspected that he would never be so delighted to have his father's calm, steady tone reach him as he was now, and he was equally confident that he would never be so comforted by the man's presence as he was when Mr. Weasley entered the tent with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in tow. All the Weasleys, by blood and by adoption, had survived to fight again, and all was well, although there was still something that was troubling Bill...

"Did you get them, Dad?" he asked, and he grimaced at the sharpness, the edge, in his own voice. Was it the searing pins that were jabbing in his arms that were causing him to act like this, or was it something else, or did he just need to get some sleep before he died of exhaustion. "The person who conjured the Mark?"

"No," his dad answered grimly, as Bill had anticipated, though that did not prevent a flash of exasperation from boiling inside him briefly. However, his frustration was soon eclipsed by shock when Mr. Weasley continued, "We found Mr. Crouch's elf holding Harry's wand, but we're none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark."

"What?" Bill heard as though from a long distance off himself demand in unison with Percy and Charlie, who seemed as taken aback by this revelation as he was.

"Harry's wand?" Fred sounded as though he had never stumbled across either word before in his lifetime.

"Mr. Crouch's elf?" Percy managed to ask through his horror at this update.

With some assistance and interruptions from Ron, Harry, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained how the trio had been found in the clearing where the Dark Mark had rose, and had been accused by Mr. Diggory of conjuring the Mark, but how Diggory had quickly changed his mind when Mr. Crouch had chided him publicly. How Mr. Diggory, no doubt looking to save face, had rummaged through the nearby shrubbery. How he had stumbled upon Mr. Crouch's elf. How Mr. Crouch's elf had been found with Harry's wand, the wand that had set up the Mark, in her hands. How she had seen nobody around the scene. How she had been given clothes for her disobedience that night.

When Percy heard this last bit, he exploded with his customary adoration of Crouch, and his usual lack of sympathy for anyone who violated even the smallest of rules under any circumstances, "Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that! Running away when he expressly told her not to! Embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry! How would it have looked, if she'd been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control—"

"She didn't do anything wrong—she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Hermione interjected with more than a touch of asperity. Bill noted that Percy looked astonished at this attack, and he could understand why. From all he had been told about her, Hermione had sounded very much like Percy, in that she abided by the rules, yet here she was championing the disobedient underdog.

"Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch's position can't afford to keep a house-elf that's going to run amock with a wand!" blustered Percy when he had recovered from the surprise assault, as though the house-elf was likely to behave like this everyday, instead of just when Death Eaters were about, blowing up tents. Honestly, it was not as though the elf had acted any differently than most people had when danger had come knocking on their doors, metaphorically, of course, since they had all been in tents.

"She didn't run amock!" Hermione snarled. "She just picked it up off the ground!"

"Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?" Ron cut in impatiently before Percy could fire back.

"I told you, it's You-Know-Who's symbol, Ron," Hermione answered tersely. "I read about it in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_."

"And it hasn't been seen for thirteen years," Mr. Weasley contributed in an almost whisper, and Bill remembered the joy he had felt when his father had returned home with the news of You-Know-Who's defeat at the hands of the little baby Harry. "Of course people panicked. It was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again."

"I don't get it," observed Ron with his typical thick-headedness. "I mean it's still only a shape in the sky."

Mr. Weasley struggled to explain to Ron the full extent of the terror represented in that deceptively simplistic mark in the sky, until Bill took pity on him, and intervened, as he examined his cut, which he was pleased to see had not turned a dreadful color, with cold logic to offset his dad's emotions, so that nobody would break down. He did not want his dad to break down, because if the man cried, then Bill would have to accept that he was as fallible as any other person alive, and he did not want to face that bit of reality yet. "Well, it didn't help us tonight, whoever conjured it," he repeated the sentiments he had expressed to the Ministry witch earlier and hoped that the occupants of the tent would understand his reasoning better. "It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses' before they hit the ground, though. They're having their memories modified right now."

"Death Eaters?" Harry echoed blankly, eliciting a surprised blink from Bill, who had assumed that everyone who didn't have cabbages for brains knew what Death Eaters were. Then he remembered that Harry had been brought up by Muggles, and had probably not read as many books as Hermione, which meant that he would never have heard about Death Eaters. "What are Death Eaters?"

"It's what You-Know-Who's supporters called themselves," he explained. "I think we saw what's left of them tonight—the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway."

"We can't prove it was them, Bill," his dad reminded him wearily, as if he could not have figured that out for himself, and as if the Death Eaters would not have been locked up if they could have. His parents still certainly had trouble remembering that he was not a little child anymore. However, Bill's impulse to reply bitingly was curtailed, when Mr. Weasley admitted hopelessly, "Though it probably was."

After that, Bill saw no point in debating the issue. They both had reached the same horrible conclusion. It was the Death Eaters that had terrorized everyone that night, but there was nothing any of them could do about it, and there was no gain to be had in squabbling over it.

Quiet filled the tent as everybody considered this, and then Ron exclaimed abruptly, causing Bill to jump in alarm, "Yeah, I bet it was! Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!"

"But what were Voldemort's—" Bill flinched as Harry employed You-Know-Who's name. For a second, he wanted to snap at the boy to shut up, but then he remembered that he couldn't say that to the Boy Who Lived anymore than he could have said that to Dumbledore, who also insisted, for reasons understood only by himself, on utilizing You-Know-Who's name.

It turned out that it would not have been necessary for him to do so, because when Harry realized that most of the tents occupants had winced when he used You-Know-Who's full name, he apologized instantly, looking bewildered by the strength of their reaction, "Sorry. What were You-Know-Who's supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what was the point."

"The point?" Mr. Weasley offered a hollow laugh as Bill shook his head at the boy's innocence. "Harry, that's their idea of fun. Half the Muggle killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn't resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them." As he finished, Bill hoped that he would never spark such bitterness to appear in his father's voice as the Death Eaters did. Of course, he understood the sentiment entirely, after what he had witnessed tonight.

"But if they were Death Eaters, why did they Disapparate when they saw the Mark?" hedged Ron, as though there could be any doubt that the masked wizards had been Death Eaters. "They'd have been pleased to see it, wouldn't they?"

"Use your brains, Ron," Bill answered curtly, barely managing to restrain an eye roll at his brother's back-and-white perception of the world. "If they really were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they'd be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied they'd ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their everyday lives...I don't reckon he'd be over-pleased with them do you?" The last sentence came out slowly, as if he were addressing a toddler, and Ron opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by Hermione, who actually asked a good question.

"So, whoever conjured the Dark Mark," she mumbled thoughtfully as her forehead knit, "were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?"

Mr. Weasley shrugged, and told her that her guess was as good as anyone's, although only Death Eaters had ever learned how to conjure the Mark, so whoever conjured it must once have been involved with Dark Lord, even if he wasn't now. When he was done stating this, he added, "Listen, it's very late, and if your mother hears about what happens she'll be worried sick. we'll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here."

Slowly, Hermione and Ginny rose and returned to their normal tents, as the others settled back into their bunk beds. Even though he was exhausted, Bill took over an hour to finally fall asleep, because it was hard to chase the images of battle, destruction, and floating Muggles out of his mind. He prayed he would never have to endure something like this again, but somehow he suspected that this was only the beginning, not the end of his struggles against a masked enemy.


	42. Chapter 42

Author's Note: Thanks to my school district for having its first, and most likely, only snow day of the year, because it meant that I could write this chapter. Time will move about fairly quickly again in this chapter, so I apologize in advance if it confuses you.

Reviews: As always, a hearty thanks goes out to all my reviewers, especially those who take the time out of their lives to review regularly. I'm so grateful for feedback, so I urge everyone to click the review button when they're done reading this chapter, and tell me what you think. (If you leave a signed review, I will respond to you a.s.a.p.)

Disclaimer: I sometimes wish I were J.K. Rowling, but, thus far, the wishing has not made it so. If that changes, you will see a sudden increase in "Rowling's" interest in a score of minor characters that I took a possibly unhealthy interest in. Until then, she had not read or endorsed this fic, and I'm not making money off it.

Champions

Bill was willing to wager his right arm and his left leg that he had not gotten more than four hours of sleep before his exhausted, baggy-eyed father was jerking him awake. Mumbling incoherently under his breath, Bill pushed back his covers reluctantly, then slowly rolled out of bed, and dressed himself with much less care than he would usually have employed in such an endeavor. While he was doing so, his dad was attempting to wake Charlie, who was a sound sleeper, and whose cacophonous snores were still filling the tent.

"I'll wake him, Dad," Bill informed Mr. Weasley, his tone short, because of the early hour, and because his brother's snores were taunting him, reminding him that others were still enjoying the luxury that was slumber.

"You do that," agreed Mr. Weasley, hurrying over to awaken Percy, who leaped out of bed and began dressing himself instantly, and Harry and Ron, who climbed out of their beds grumbling and tossle-haired, and who seemed asleep on their feet as they tugged their garments over their heads.

As Mr. Weasley exited to wake the girls, Bill snatched the pillow out from under his snoozing sibling's head. The sudden movement caused Charlie's head to jerk and bang against the backboard of the bunk. Still, Charlie continued to sleep on in his deep, snoring manner. Deciding that the rumors about his favorite brother having been whacked upside the head with a Bludger too many times must indeed be valid if he could incorporate a head injury into his dreamland without any indication of feeling pain, Bill hit his sibling's face with the pillow three times in a row.

This finally impacted Charlie, who aroused himself enough to shove the pillow away from himself drowsily. "I hate you," he complained as he did so. "You're worse than Mum, or an alarm clock."

"I've hated you longer, since before you were born, so I win," retorted Bill as Charlie sat up, scowling.

"I shouldn't think it was the length but rather the depth of the loathing that mattered," Charlie fired back, "and, if that's the case, then I certainly win."

"Nope, little bro, because you're still much too young to comprehend, nonetheless, feel true hatred."

"And I suppose you are?" Charlie's eyebrows quirked testily.

"Of course I am." Bill shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "I'm older than you."

"Only by two years," the other scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Get off my bunk."

"All right, if you insist so." Climbing down the bunk bed ladder, Bill added, "You'd better get down, too, and get dressed, lazybones."

Glowering at him, Charlie clambered down the ladder steps, and tossed his clothes on in a few seconds, obviously not caring a whit about his appearance. Not long after that, Mr. Weasley finished employing magic to wrap up the tents, and they were departing the campsite at top speed. As they left, they passed the owner of the campsite, who was standing with a glazed look in his eyes at the threshold of his cottage. The expression on his face and the fact that he sent them off with an absent-minded "Merry Christmas" attested that he was still recovering from his memory modification.

Indeed, Bill heard his dad reassure those who were unfamiliar with the side effects of memory modification that the man would be fine, and that disorientation was a common symptom resulting from Memory Charms, as they crossed the moor.

Within five minutes of walking, urgent, raised voices reached their ears, as they neared the spot where people were supposed to catch the Portkeys. When they arrived, Bill noticed that a gaggle of witches and wizards were besieging a harried Ministry employee. It was plain that everyone was in a panic to leave the camp as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, and ironically, their hysteria was serving to hinder, not help, them.

In the end, Mr. Weasley managed to engage himself in a brisk conversation with the Ministry wizard, and they were able to be transported by an enchanted old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had truly risen. _Excellent_, Bill though when he observed this, _I'll be able to go back to sleep without any difficulty― I knew there was a reason I didn't have my morning cup of coffee_. As they all walked through the village of Ottery St. Cathpole, and up the damp lane to the Burrow, he envisioned the comfortable bed that awaited him in the room he shared with Charlie. His wistful daydream was popped like a soap bubble when a piercing cry greeted them as they rounded a corner and the Burrow came into view.

"Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, running toward them all, still, embarrassingly enough, wearing her tattered bedroom slippers. Her face was ashen, and stained with tears, and Bill's heart went out to her in that moment. Clearly, she had heard about the awful events of last night, and had worked herself up into a fit of worry about them. The crumpled up copy of the _Daily Prophet_ she was squeezing meant that Bill didd not have to look far for the source of her news.

"Arthur, I've been so worried―so worried," she continued, wrapping her arms around her spouses' neck with a wild abandon, as the broadside slipped out of her clasp, and landed with a splat in the mud. Scowling because the paper had sent mud flying onto his clothing, Bill glared down at the front page, and spotted the reason for his mother's anguish. A headline blared "Scenes of Terror at the Quidditch World Cup!" Next to the article was a flashing black and white photograph of the Dark Mark soaring above the woods, as it had been last night.

"You're all right," she concluded absently as she released her husband, and started scrutinizing the rest of her family with scarlet-rimmed eyes, searching for any sign of injury, and checking that they had all come back home again. Apparently, what she saw reassured her enough for her to remark in a shaky tone, "You're alive."

Then she focused on her trouble twins. "Oh, _boys_," Mrs. Weasley wailed as she threw her arms around the pair, taking Bill by surprise, because she had been furious at Fred and George recently since all they wanted to do was open a prankshop. Still, she obviously did not want them dead. People were odd like that.

"Ouch, Mum!" protested the twin on the right as the heads of the dreadful duo collided loudly.

"You're strangling us!" the other one complained simultaneously.

"I shouted at you before you left!" Mrs. Weasley was sobbing without any restraint now, continuing to asphyxiate the twins, doing her best to murder them in her relief that they were still alive. "It's all I've been thinking about. What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever told you was that you didn't get enough O.W.L.'s? Oh, Fred…George…" She probably would have gone on in this vein for awhile longer if Bill's dad had not prudently intervened.

"Come on, now, Molly, we're all perfectly okay," soothed Mr. Weasley, taking pity on the terror twins, and removing them from her clutches. As he ushered his wife back into the house with numerous pats on the back, he murmured as he passed Bill, "Bill, pick up that paper. I want to see what it says."

Obediently, Bill bent to scoop up the dirty newspaper, and followed the rest of the pack into the cozy kitchen of the Burrow, where he plopped into a seat opposite Charlie. Meanwhile, Hermione Granger proved that her intelligence was more than just booksmarts when she immediately made Mrs. Weasley a cup of potent tea to calm her nerves. Once his father had won the battle to put Ogdens Old Firewhiskey into the tea, Bill handed Mr. Weasley, who had taken the chair next to Charlie, the paper.

"Thanks," Mr. Weasley replied as he scanned the front page, Percy reading over his shoulder, something that would have annoyed Bill, but that his dad did not seem to mind.

"I knew it," he sighed, and Bill leaned forward, interested, for he had only had time to read the headline, and look at the illustration. What did the rest of the story say? Obviously, nothing good, but what exactly? " 'Ministry blunders'… 'culprits not apprehended'… 'lax security'… 'Dark wizards running unchecked'… 'national disgrace.' Who wrote this?" Disgust and contempt became even more plain in the man's expression as he skimmed over the byline. "Ah, of course, Rita Skeeter."

"That woman's got it in for the Ministry of Magic!" seethed Percy as Bill snorted derisively at the mention of Rita Skeeter. He still had not forgiven her for describing him as a 'long-haired pillock' in her story about Curse-Breakers. Sure, he had long hair, but he wasn't a pillock―she was.

He returned to the present, and had the unpleasant realization that Percy was still babbling, his tirade now encompassing paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans, or some such rot. Rolling his eyes, he groaned inwardly, thinking that this was worse than school. Aloud, he pretended to yawn, "Do us a favor, Perce, and shut up."

Looking stung, Percy closed his mouth instantaneously with a snap. For a second, Bill felt a twinge of remorse. He had not meant to wound his younger brother, just get him to cease his dull lecture. There was a difference. Someone as clever as Percy should be able to recognize that. Before he could invent words to salvage the situation, his father distracted him by declaring, "I'm mentioned."

"Where?" Mrs. Weasley choked on her tea mixed with whiskey. "If I'd seen that, I'd have known you were alive!"

"Not by name," her spouse responded. "Listen to this: 'If the terrified witches and wizards who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the woods expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.' Oh, really," finished Mr. Weasley exasperatedly as he shoved the _Daily Prophet_ into Percy's hands. "Nobody _was _hurt. What was I supposed to say?" He skrewed up his face as he quoted the article, " 'Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods'… Well, there certainly will be rumors now that she's printed that."

After heaving an enormous sigh to regain control of himself he stated grimly, "Molly, I'm going to have to go into the office. This is going to take some smoothing over."

"I'll come with you, Father," announced Percy, his tone implying that he was a Minister of Magic with sky high approval ratings. "Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck, and I can give him my cauldron report in person." As Percy strutted out of the kitchen, Bill rolled his eyes at the status the cauldron bottom report enjoyed in his little sibling's life. It was hysterical in a rather tragic fashion.

"Arthur, you're supposed to be on holiday." Mrs. Weasley turned an upset face to her husband as Percy departed. "This hasn't got anything to do with your office. Surely they can handle this without you?"

"I've got to go, Molly." Bill saw his dad reach out to squeeze his mum's hand for a moment, before the man let go, and made for the exit. "I've made things worse." With that, he followed Percy out, and Bill decided that the excitement was over, and it was time for him to hurry up to the bedroom he shared with Charlie, and sleep for a week. Scratch that, sleep for a month. As he crossed the kitchen, he kissed his mother's cheek as he passed her, but he suspected that she was too preoccupied with staring after her spouse to notice. He could hear Charlie thundering up the stairs in his wake.

After that, his vacation passed in a blur. He did not often make contact with his dad or Percy, because they were busy dealing with the aftermath of the crisis at the Quidditch World Cup. Instead, he spent his days playing Quidditch with his brothers and Harry when the weather was fair, and playing Exploding Snap and wizarding chess with the other children when it was not. To his chagrin, he also found that he invested quite a bit of his time soothing his mother's anxiety about the safety of her spouse and third son, convincing her not to chop off most of his hair for him, and ignoring her rants about his new fang earring.

In this way, the summer went by quickly and pleasantly enough. All in all, Bill was shocked when September first was suddenly upon them, and it was time to see off Fred, George, Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione at King's Cross, and to tease them about the Triwizard Tournament with Charlie which the teenagers had not head about yet.

Two days later, he was saying farewell to the remainder of his family as he was returning to Egypt and Charlie was going back to Romania. When he stepped out of the fireplace at the Gringotts in Cairo, Bill was pleasantly surprised when he spotted Louis, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath waiting for him.

"We're back to full productivity at last," Rottentooth commented in Gobbledegook, and Foulbreath nodded his assent.

"I read about what happened at the Cup," observed Louis in a clipped tone. "So you weren't murdered, then?"

"Nah, it takes more nerve or cowardice than I've got to up and die," Bill replied, as the four of them left the bank, stepping into the blinding Egyptian sunlight. "Nobody died, actually."

"He isn't back, then?" demanded the other man as they mounted their camels.

"Not that I know of." Bill shook his head. "If I thought You-Know-Who was back, I would apply for a desk job at home, so I could fight him."

"The goblins wouldn't be happy if you did that."

"They won't refuse me. I'm too valuable to lose."

"I still have trouble comprehending why they feel that way." Louis stared off into the desert they were now riding through for a long minute. "So, nobody died at the Cup, you say?"

"Yep, but not for the Death Eaters' lack of trying, mind you." Bill could not keep his loathing of the Dark wizards hidden, although, admittedly, he did not put much effort into an attempt to conceal it.

"But I thought that he and his followers only raised that sign when he had done away with somebody?" As he established as much, Louis frowned in puzzlement.

"That's right, but this time was different, and I've yet to figure out who raised it, so I can hex them into next Thursday. All I can tell you is that whoever conjured the Dark Mark, Lou, was not on the good side, because it scared all the Death Eaters away before we could unmask them."

"Hold on!" Louis sounded incredulous. "You said, 'Before _we _could unmask them.'"

"Congratulations, you haven't gone entirely deaf yet," noted Bill dryly. "Give it another year or two, though, and you'll have it accomplished."

"I've for to find a spell to make you mute," his companion retorted. "Anyway, you know what I mean, Bill. You were involved in the battle against the Death Eaters?"

"Yes," Bill snorted, "you didn't think I would wait for them to blast my tent, did you? Or did you envision me fleeing into the woods when I could fight the evil, instead of running away from it? I'm a Gryffindor and a Weasley. Nobody in either group is supposed to be cowardly."

"And you aren't." Louis offered him a crooked grin. "A fighter through and through, that's what you are."

"And you aren't?" Bill arched his brow at his companion in a challenge.

"No, I'm a jaded opportunist, as you ought to know by now."

"I know no such thing," answered Bill, his manner firm. "However, I do know that you're determined to deny your best attributes, but that's to be expected as a cynic is nothing more than a sentimentalist who is afraid of himself."

Before Louis could snarl back, Foulbreath grunted, "Why must you two constantly squabble? Arguments between members of the same species undermine profitability and productivity. When will humans learn this simple lesson?"

"How can you possibly expect an Englishman and a Frenchman to get along?" growled Louis. "You should just be grateful that you and Rottentooth haven't been killed in the crossfire of a wizarding duel yet."

"This Englishman will stop bickering with the Frenchman if the Frenchman makes some truffles for dessert tonight." Although he addressed this to Foulbreath, it was clear that it was intended for Louis' ears.

"The Englishman should be aware that the Frenchman will be baking napoleons, not truffles, for dessert," Louis remarked loftily.

"Does the Frenchman want to recall the glory days of his country with his napoleons?" snickered Bill.

"The Frenchman wishes to remind the Englishman that France has seen many glory days before, during, and after the time of Napoleon," Louis educated him, his voice haughty. "The Englishman might also be interested in learning that escargots are planned for supper."

"For the nine millionth time in recent memory, the Englishman is forced to call into question the sanity of the Frenchman," groaned Bill. The thought of consuming snails was nothing short of revolting. Indeed, he could feel his stomach churning in protest even now.

It was mid-November when Bill received a letter next from his family. When he tore open the envelope in the tent bedroom he shared with Louis, he realized that Charlie's letter consisted mostly of clippings from the _Daily Prophet_, and a brief note. Deciding to read the letter first, Bill yanked out the crinckled bit of parchment and began to decipher Charlie's scrawl:

_Dear Bill, _

_I just got these clippings from Mum, and I decided to pass them onto you, thinking they might be of interest to you. The tear smudges on it are all Mum's, by the way. She's really upset, and you'll see why once you've read the article Mum cut out of the paper. All in all, I think you'll understand why I haven't told her that the Champions have to steal a golden egg from the nest of various types of dragons, since that would distress her even more. By the way, Cedric Diggory is a Hogwarts Champion, even if the article does not say, as Mum told me so herself in her letter. I hope Egypt's treating you as well as Romania is treating me. _

_Love, _

_Charlie_

Frowning, because he could not understand much of his younger brother's letter, Bill pulled out the newspaper clippings, hoping they would provide clarification. The first clipping seemed to be most of the front page, and was really nothing more than a photo of Harry, although there was about a sentence underneath it, with the rest of the article continuing on pages two, six, and seven, which had all been cut out for him. It did not appear to be an article about the Tournament, but rather about Harry:

**It would come as a surprise to many Britons that a fourteen-year-old boy could be chosen as Hogwarts Champion in the Triwizard Tournament, given that Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, who has been characterized by some as an obsolete dingbat, has declared that the spells preventing underage students from submitting their names for consideration would prevent anyone under the age of seventeen from entering. However, Harry Potter, famous for his defeat of You-Know-Who when he was a baby, has managed to overcome this obstacle, apparently feeling that the competition was not too perilous for him after he has triumphed against the Dark Lord in the past. This reporter was able to have an opportunity to interview this self-appointed maverick, who some would accuse of complacency. I was able to learn more about his reasons for entering, which entailed a desire to prove himself, and why he was confident that he would win the Tournament with absurd ease. **

**As Harry Potter himself explained it to me during our lengthy interview, "I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they'd be very proud of me, if they could see me now. Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I know nothing will hurt me during the Tournament, because they're watching over me." **

**Being an investigative reporter, I was determined to flesh out the full story behind Harry's entrance into the Tournament. Therefore, I interviewed some of his friends at Hogwarts, and I learned many tantalizing facts about the Boy Who Lived, some of which I will share with our readers. Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-Born girl, who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school. **

**In case the readers are interested in who exactly Potter is up against, the Champion for Durmstrang is one Viktor Kum, who is most famous for his work as a Bulgarian Seeker, and the Champion for Beaubatons is a Flor Delacour. How Harry does against these contenders in the first task will be posted in this paper when the first task comes around. **

As he read this, Bill found himself laughing harder and harder in disbelief. When he glanced at the byline, he was not surprised to see that the author of this drivel was none other than Rita Skeeter. Dumbledore...an obsolete dingbat, who was she kidding, when everyone knew that he was more necessary than the Minister of Magic? Harry Potter, an arrogant maverick? Nah, the boy seemed humble enough, and he didn't seem the type to break the rules just for the heck of it. As for him entering only to prove himself, that was silly, when everyone already knew he could face You-Know-Who even as a one-year-old. And Bill could not imagine Ron not knowing that his best friend was sobbing himself to sleep every night because of his dead parents. Sure, Ron was clueless, but he did occupy the same solar system as everyone else most of the time. As for Hermione and Harry liking each other, what nonsense. It was plain to anyone that had witnessed them interact that they were nothing more than good friends, and Hermione was a plain girl, not a pretty one, and Bill was certain that Colin Creevey was not close to Harry, as he had not been mentioned all summer.

Well, he could keep the article for when he needed a laugh after a particularly nasty tomb. However, he would have to remember to remind his mum that Rita was nothing more than a filthy liar, and that Harry was too tough to be sobbing his eyes out on a regular basis because his parents had been murdered years ago.

"What on earth is so funny?" Louis glared at his comrade over his French action novel.

"This." Bill reached over to dump the clippings on the other's bunk.

As he read the scraps of the article, Louis began to scowl. The glower grew larger and larger as he got further and further into the article. When he reached the end, he stated waspishly, "They misspelled the name of my alma mater."

"Huh?"

"The French school of magic is Beauxbatons, not Beaubatons. It translates into 'beautiful wands,'" explained Louis impatiently, "and our Champion's name is probably Fleur Delacour, not Flor Delacour, as fleur is French for flower, and flor is Spanish for the same thing."

"Don't be too offended," chuckled Bill, "as I think that the Bulgarian Seeker is Viktor Krum, not Viktor Kum, and that he is the Durmstrang Champion. Mind you, they should be grateful that they were mentioned at all, since the other Hogwarts Champions, Cedric Diggory wasn't talked about at all."

"Whatever. Make sure you tell your brother to write you about what happens at the first task, because I want to hear about how our French girl kicks everyone's butts," Louis ordered.

"You mean, you want to hear about how Harry creams everybody," teased Bill, and Louis chucked a pillow at him, and the whole conversation ended.


	43. Chapter 43

Author's Note: Sorry if time flies again, but really that just means you're having fun.I can't believe I churned out another one this quickly, but I did.

Reviews: I comment or two, as long as it is respectful, is never amiss, in my opinion.

Disclaimer: I tried to get J.K. Rowling to sell Harry Potter to me, but she wasn't too keen on the notion for some bizarre reason, so it's still her property, not mine.

Triwizard Tournament

Twelve days after the news clippings arrived, a Hogwarts owl flew into Bill and Louis' bedroom, and dumped a roll of parchment on Bill's head before swooping out again with a flutter of wings. Rubbing his head where the owl had smashed it, he opened the scroll, and began to read Charlie's sloppy handwriting:

_Dear Bill, _

_You asked me to keep you and Louis posted as to what occurred at the first task, so that's what I'm doing now, which means that you'd better appreciate the pains I went to in order to make you happy. Anyway, last night, me and my co-workers brought in a common Welsh Green, a Swedish Short-Snout, a Chinese Fireball, and a Hungarian Horntail onto the grounds of Hogwarts, and locked them all in their paddocks. Since I was bringing dragons, a passion of Hagrid's, onto the school premises, I invited Hagrid to come down, and see them. He accepted, but the bad thing was that he dragged the French headmistress along with him on a very "romantic" date. (See even I don't think that it's a great idea to take a girlfriend to a dragon pen on your first night out.) I'll bet that she told her champion about the dragons and all. Still, it didn't do her champion much good, but I'm getting ahead of myself, as I'm wont to do when I'm excited. By the way, Hagrid seemed like he wanted to steal one of the Horntail mother's eggs, but I informed him in my best stern Quidditch Captain voice that we'd counted all the eggs. _

_To move onto the actual task, the French girl, I believe her name is Fleur Delacour, although the __**Daily Prophet **__spells it "Flor", got the common Welsh green, Krum got the Chinese Fireball, Diggory got the Swedish Short-Snout, and Harry got the Hungarian Horntail. Diggory, who went first, Transfigured a rock on the ground into a dog, trying to trick the Short-Snout into chasing the dog, instead of him. To be frank, it was a neat enough display of Transfiguration. (Bet McGonagall was proud. Can't you see her going, "I taught him all the Transfiguration he knows"? No? Don't feel too bad, for neither can I.) Furthermore, Diggory's idea worked somewhat, since he managed to steal the golden egg from the nest, but he sustained a nasty burn, as well, because the dragon changed her mind halfway through, and decided that humans taste loads better than Labradors, so Diggory barely escaped. In the end, he came in third point-wise. (Or second, as you'll see later.)_

_Next up was the French girl against the Welsh Green. By the way, the French girl is astonishingly good-looking, but I don't have the time for women, so you're welcome to her, as long as you invite me to the wedding, so I can get loads of free drinks. To return to the task, she did pretty well. (Oh, what a great double entendre: the pretty girl did pretty well, get it?) Anyway, she did some sort of Entrancing Charm that put the Welsh Green to sleep, which was effective enough that she was able to steal the golden egg, like Diggory. However, when the dragon snored, the French girl's skirt caught fire, and she had to put it out with a jet of water from her wand. Since all of her was nearly on fire, she's currently in fourth place. (Or third place, as you'll see later.) _

_Krum (not Kum, as the __**Daily Prophet**__ in its daily folly dubbed him) was third. He shot a spell into the eyes of the Fireball, which meant that, while this permitted him to steal the golden egg, half the nestling eggs were trampled, and that cost him points, because he wasn't supposed to inflict damage on the eggs. Still, he managed to tie with Harry, who was brilliant, because the headmaster of Durmstrang was a git, who gave him ten points, and gave Harry, who was awesome, as I said, only four points. _

_The best was saved for last, when it came to the first task. Our adopted brother was amazing, and he had the hardest, most vicious dragon of all! He flew over the dragon to get the egg! Isn't that ingenious? As for his flying, it was simply superb, and almost flawless. In fact, I'm not sure I could have done as well, especially now that I'm out of practice, and now that I'm old, and soon my body will begin a slow, painful decay, as will yours. (Actually, since your older and less fit, you're body will start turning on you sooner, and I will have a good two or three years to make fun of you before the same thing happens to me.) To get off such a depressing topic, the only bad thing about Harry's excellent performance was that he got a hurt shoulder, but, still, he was so incredible that he definitely deserved more points than the lousy four that the scumbag head of Dungstrang gave him. I mean, Harry's stunt was so amazing that even McGonagall termed it as "excellent", and we all know that Minerva McGonagall does not believe in praising people, especially when they're in her own House. _

_You'll be delighted to know that I've told Mum how well Harry did, so she can stop crying about him. I've got to go help pack up the dragons now. _

_Love always from your ecstatic brother, _

_Charlie _

Grinning triumphantly, Bill hollered, "Lou!"

"I'm cooking crepes and éclairs at the moment, imbecile," called Louis from the kitchen. "If you wish to pester me, get your lazy behind off your bed, and come into the kitchen, where I can smack you should the need arise."

Smiling even more broadly, Bill rolled off his bunk, Charlie's note in his hand, and hurried into the kitchen, where he announced to Louis' back, "I've got a letter from Charlie."

"About the first task?" A note of interest entered the other man's tone.

"Yep."

"Well, how awesome was the French girl?" Louis asked, as he flipped over some crepes in the frying pan to ensure that both sides baked evenly. "Bet she outstripped everyone by a dozen kilometers, because that's the sort of quality education you receive at Beauxbatons. While you yammer on like a lunatic, you can begin chopping up some vegetables for the salad. I trust you with such a basic chore, although I will be sure to create the delicious French dressing to cover it."

"To be honest, Charlie informed me that she did decently enough, but that Harry Potter did loads better, displaying the peerless education Hogwarts provides to students of all ages," answered Bill with relish as he started slicing carrots.

"You're lying, for a Brit could never beat a Frenchman," Louis blustered as he checked on the pastries, determined that they were progressing well, and offered a satisfied nod.

"Maybe not, but we're discussing a French girl, not a Frenchman," Bill reminded his friend with a malignant grin. Now he understood why so many people chose to be Death Eaters. Torturing other beings could be fun, though refined methods of cruelty were indisputably the best.

"And, isn't your Harry Potter an English girl, so aren't we even in that?" Louis retorted.

"Leave him alone, Lou," snapped Bill. "He defeated You-Know-Who in three of three confrontations, which is much better than France's war record, which is about one-to-eight, and that's post-Napoleon, mind you, because, before that, it was one-to-sixteen. Honestly, France is barely better than Greece, which has fared poorly in battle since the tragic loss of Odysseus and Achilles, and Switzerland, which is just one big pussy."

"Trust the Brit to be a bigot. The only people more arrogant that the British are the Americans, most of whom think they're the best beings on the planet, though they don't seem to understand that there's a world outside their country." Louis shook his head. "Anyway, France is much better than our neighbor Germany. Germans are quick out of the gate, but they fade rapidly in the homestretch. French people may do poorly in the outset, but they always come back to victory, taking everyone by surprise. They do so because they are French, and the French are the greatest beings on earth. This French girl will prove the superiority of our country and our school in the next match, mark my words."

"I'll wait for Harry to triumph in the second task before I pass judgment," teased Bill, dropping the diced vegetables into the salad bowl. "However, I will have no mercy on you once he does, and I will take a sadistic pleasure in replaying your words back to you when he shows how wonderful a Hogwarts education is."

"You mean, you will concede that you were wrong, and that I was right, as always, once the French girl whips your Harry to a Potter pulp," Louis snarled as he placed the crepes on a platter, and poured some French dressing over Bill's salad.

"I'll let you keep believing in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, as well, shall I?" Bill started setting the table as he made this mocking inquiry.

"And I won't throw the bread knife at you, or slip poison into your champagne," his comrade riposted as he placed glasses of wine, supper dishes loaded with crepes, and the massive ceramic salad bowl on the table. "Eat up."

Bill was starting to winder if he would have to get a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ to learn about how events unfolded in the second task when Percy sent him a pompous note on Christmas Eve:

**Dear Bill, **

**Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I have received such an honor that I thought you should be apprised of it at once. It is with considerable pleasure that I announce that I have risen quickly in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Indeed, this can plainly be seen in Mr. Crouch's decision to have me attend the Yule Ball, the ball that always accompanies the Triwizard Tournament on Christmas, at Hogwarts. Most unfortunately, Mr. Crouch is ailing of late, although the mind remains unchanged, and I'm sure vigor will soon return to him, but I do take comfort, as I am confident that he does, in the knowledge that, until he recovers, he has someone who he can rely upon entirely, namely me. It is possible that I will even have to attend the second task as judge in Mr. Crouch's stead. **

**I had best be going now, for I have many obligations that it is my solemn duty and responsibility to fulfill. **

**Yours most sincerely, **

**Percy **

Once he stopped chuckling at all the Percyish phrases liberally sprinkled throughout this epistle, Bill penned a polite response, stating that he was delighted to hear of Percy's success, and asking that if Percy did indeed attend the second task, could he send a note explaining what had happened in it. With a self-important air apparent even on parchment, Percy agreed to this, promising his older brother that if he did attend the second task as a judge in Crouch's place he would tell him everything.

It transpired that Percy did go to the second task instead of Crouch, for the next letter Bill received from his younger sibling read:

**Dear Bill, **

**You requested that I update you on the proceedings of the second task should I be privileged enough to attend it, which I took to mean that you were mainly interested in Harry's exploits. Therefore, with your indulgence, I will focus mainly on Harry's deeds throughout the second part of the Triwizard Tournament. **

**I must confess that Harry's start was not an auspicious one, for he was tardy, forcing me to reprimand him, because, as a judge, I must be impartial, you understand. However, he did well enough in the actual task, I suppose. Obviously, he consumed gillyweed, which transformed him into a fish, which meant that he was able to reach the Merpeople village first. **

**However, Harry Potter, given his desire always to be the hero, was not content to just take his hostage, Ron, and swim away. No, he had to wait around for the other champions to arrive and take what was "most dearest to them." I mean, I could understand him feeling compelled to discover what happened to Hermione, who was Krum's hostage, because they are friends, though I do not have the faintest idea why he decided to stay around with Cho Chang, Diggory's hostage, or Fleur Delacour's sister. My confusion, though, does not change the fact that he did so, and came back behind Diggory and Krum, despite having arrived first at the Merpeople village. (Fleur Delacour was attacked by grindylows before she could get her little sister, and so Harry, at least, had a better time than her.) **

**Still, if you're cheering for Harry, as I've no doubt you are, given that he is Ron's best friend, you need not get depressed over his performance. It turns out that Harry has got friends in high places, which is to say on the judge pannel, in the form of Professor Dumbledore, and, oddly enough, Ludo Bagamn. Anyway, Dumbledore spun a tale about how Harry's staying with the other's and dragging Feur's sister up demonstrated "moral fiber", and Bagman rushed to support him in this assessment. For some reason, I found myself agreeing with Dumbledore, even though I admit know that I have no notion what he was babbling on about. I postulate that Dumbledore is able to twist my brain to his will with magic, though I shall have to do some more research to uncover how exactly he does so, and if there is a defense against it. (If you ever do come back to England, incidentally, you may want to do the same thing.) **

**In the end, we awarded Fleur Delacour twenty-five points, Krum forty, Diggory, who arrived a few minutes after the time limit, forty-five, and Harry forty-five for moral fiber. To be blunt, Harry may indeed have come away from this task short-changed to use a vulgar expression you are probably immensely familiar with due to your work at Gringotts, because most judges, except the headmaster of Durmstrang, were convinced that Harry's moral decision warranted full marks. Therefore, because of the Durmstrang headmaster's dissent, he is still tied with Diggory, not in the lead. **

**That is all I have to report, and I have much business to care for in Mr. Crouch's absence, so I am afraid that I will have to end this piece of correspondence abruptly. Do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of service. **

**Yours most sincerely, **

**Percy **

"Hey, Lou, check this out," Bill ordered with a smirk, shoving Percy's letter into his roomate's hand.

Sighing, Louis put down the book on ancient Egyptian mythology he was currently devouring and which he had promised to lend Bill when he was finished with, and commenced reading the note. An ominous scowl darkened his face as he read it. When he completed reading Percy's update, he growled obstinately, "This proves nothing, Bill Weasley. We shall have our revenge in the third task, never fear. Our Fleur is just lulling her enemies into a false sense of security, knowing that the arrogant Brits will fall for it."

"You're never going to admit defeat, are you?" Bill demanded, his lips twitching in amusement.

"No more than you would," Louis educated him grimly. "Defeat isn't in my vocabulary."

"How could you use the word then?"

"You know perfectly well that I meant that surrender is never an option with me. I always win, no matter how many times I have to fight the same battle."

"Seems like a dreadful waste," observed Bill, taking the offensive letter out of Louis' hand, and chucking it into the wastepaper basket now that he had his moment of leering triumph.

"I suppose you would know, since you do the same thing yourself," his co-worker snorted. "You're frightfully pigheaded."

"Well, I admit that I don't mind engaging in the same quarrel with you over and over again, as long as I emerge the victor each time, and I see that this is going to be the case with the Triwizard Tournment."

"I've met dead bodies less offensive than you are." Louis' glower intensified.

Silence flooded the tent for a moment, and then Bill suggested in a mild tone, "It's not too late for you to change your loyalties. You could decide to support Harry, or even Diggory, I reckon."

"That'd be cowardly, and the French girl will win in the end, you'll see." As he established as much, Louis picked up his book, and resumed his reading with increased interest, implying that the conversation was over.

"No, you'll find that Harry will win again." Bill refused to let his companion have the last word. "As for it being cowardly, why do you care? Since when have you cared about virtuous behavior? Also, as you're not a Gryffindor, cowardliness is to be expected of you."

"Not everyone has a moral compass that points south like yours does." Louis rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Why should my moral compass point south, when compasses point north?"

"So it can lead you to hell when you die."

"You mean I won't even escape you there?" groaned Bill, and the other man held up his tome in a menacing insinuation, and Bill decided to cease taunting him at this point before he suffered permanent brain damage.

The Triwizard Tournament did not intrude upon Bill's mind again, until he received a letter from his mum in late June:

_**Dear Bill, **_

_**I have only just found out from Dumbledore that the Champion's families are invited to come to Hogwarts and spend time with their Champion before the final task, which they are encouraged to stay and watch. Now, strictly speaking, we are not Harry's family, but I hardly can imagine the Dursleys showing up, when they clearly do not care about that poor dear, at all, given the fact that they starve him and lock him in his bedroom. Anyway, I know it is short notice and all, but it would be ever so nice a surprise for Harry, if you could get some time off three days from now to go and cheer him on. Percy's having a hard time at the Ministry, because they're blaming him for not noticing that his boss, Mr. Crouch, had gone mad, and not informing anyone, so he won't be able to come. However, I'm asking Charlie if he can attend, as well, and he might be able to, and then you can catch up with him as well. **_

_**If you can come, dear, just meet me at Hogwarts. Remember to Apparate outside the grounds, though, because horrible things would happen to you if you tried to breach the protective enchantments that surround the school. **_

_**Hoping with all my heart to see you and Charlie soon,**_

_**Mum**_

Not long after Errol arrived with this message, another letter came, this time from Charlie:

_Dear Bill, _

_Mum said you sent you the same owl that she sent me, so I won't waste time summarizing it for you, because I'm too lazy to do that. I'm sorry to say that I won't be able to go, because my boss says he needs me, so I can't take a personal day, and now I can't pretend to be sick on that day. Drat it! Anyway, tell Harry I wish him the best of luck in his final task, and tell Mum that I'm really upset that I can't go. (And that's not a lie, so you don't have to feel guilty about passing it on.) Well, I'd better go. It's time for my shift, even though I don't feel like working at the moment. Sorry this letter is so short._

_Love from your bitter brother, _

_Charlie_

Unlike Charlie, Bill was able to take a personal day, and since, it was a Friday, he had a three-day weekend, something of which Louis was envious. As such, that Friday he Apparated, arriving outside the gates of Hogwarts. When he walked onto the grounds, a powerful bittersweet sensation swept over him. It was a moment before he realized that the potent feeling washing over him was memory. He was imagining all those times he had wandered down this path with Chris and Mike, or had strolled here with his arm around Jennifer, Heather, or Steph. Every time he passed under a tree, he saw himself and his school companions clustered under it, pouring over their textbooks, and every bench seemed to be filled with him as his friends, huddled together to keep warm during the winter.

Gosh, he was turning into a sentimental fool. Next thing he knew he would be yammering on like a toothless old man about the "good old days." He shuddered. That was not going to happen to him, he swore to himself, he would remain young and handsome forever.

Unfortunately, he felt even more ancient when he mounted the steps, and walked into the gigantic entrance hall, which was much more impressive than he recalled. He couldn't help feeling like he was about to cross into the Great Hall for supper with Chris, Mike, Jennifer, Heather, and Steph, or else race upstairs for classes. Utter folly, of course.

"If you're here to see Potter, you can wait in that chamber over there." Taking his vacant staring about the entrance hall to mean that he was unsure about where to go, rather than loss in memory, Professor McGonagall pointed into a chamber off the entrance hall. "Your mother's already here, so you'll see here as soon as you enter. I'm going to fetch Potter now. He's at breakfast."

"Thanks," Bill faltered, not certain how to address her now that he was no longer her pupil, as he walked into the chamber she had indicated.

As Minerva McGonagall generally was, she was right in this analysis, for the moment he went in, he saw his mum standing beside the fireplace, and he twisted a path around what appeared to be Krum's parents, who were conversing in rapid Bulgarian, the French girl's mother and sister, who were silently waiting for the Beauxbatons champion to appear, and Mr. and Mrs. Diggory, over to Mrs. Weasley, as she waved energetically at him.

"Charlie apologizes for not being able to attend, since he couldn't manage to get time off," Bill reported as he embraced her.

"Oh, well," shrugged Mrs. Weasley. "We'll still surprise Harry, don't you think?"

"Definitely," Bill smiled. As the champions poured into the chamber, he added, "Here they come now."

"But Harry's not among them!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed.

"He probably doesn't reckon that anyone's come to see him perform in the final task," Bill reassured her, because she was wringing her hands in concern. "After all, you said yourself that the Dursleys are as likely as You-Know-Who is to show up in his support."

"Don't joke about such things," scolded his mum.

Before Bill could reply, Cedric Diggory intervened to volunteer, "I'll go get him." As Cedric went over to the door that fed into the Great Hall, Mr. Diggory snorted audibly and derisively, suggesting that he was not going to join a Harry Potter fan club anytime soon.

"Harry, come on, they're waiting for you!" Bill heard Cedric shout, and the next second, a perplexed Harry entered the full chamber, as Cedric returned to his family. His emerald eyes cast about the room for a minute, before they focused on Bill and his mother, who were beaming at him.

"Surprise!" Mrs. Weasley declared gleefully as Harry's eyes fastened on the pair of them. "Thought we'd come and watch you, Harry," she explained as Harry reached them, and she kissed him on the cheek.

"Are you all right?" Bill inquired, grinning and shaking Harry's hand once his mum was done smothering the boy. Dutifully making his excuses for his younger brother he went on, "Charlie wanted to come, but he couldn't get time off. He said you were incredible against the Horntail."

As he stated as much, Bill felt someone's eyes upon him, and when he glanced in the direction from which the stare originated, he realized that the French girl was eyeing him with considerable interest over her mother's shoulder. Moreover, she wasn't just any French girl. She was the French girl that he had fallen head over heels for at the World Cup. The one who had moonbeams for hair, and the most amazing, most piercing eyes that could stop a heart like a Basilisk's stare. She was the one he had fought the Death Eaters for, even if she didn't know it. How had he not recognized her before? Obviously, he had either been too preoccupied looking for Harry, or he had just banged his head on a low-hanging rafter. Those were the two most logical explanations for this anomaly.

"Hmm." Barely restraining from criticizing the Durselys, Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, as her brown eyes burned. Time to change the subject, Bill decided, as he enjoyed his view of the French girl. The French girl that was no longer nameless, because her name must be Fleur Delacour, since she was the Beauxbatons champion, and the champion of his heart. Fleur Delacour. What a lovely, flowing name that was, and it was almost worthy of having such a lovely bearer.

"It's nice being back here," he commented, thinking it was a wonder he could speak at all in his current state. Deciding that he had better avert his eyes from Fleur Delacour before he did something as unmanly and unromantic as fainting, he began to rove the chamber with his eyes. He regretted doing so when the Fat Lady's friend, Violet or whatever her name was winked at him. Blast it! She wasn't the one he wished to have winking at him! Intentionally not making eye contact with that portrait, he continued, "Haven't seen this place in years? Is that picture of the mad knight still around? Sir Cadogan?"

"Oh, yeah." Harry nodded.

"And the Fat Lady?" Bill asked, reminding himself to get off the topic of paintings the next time he opened his mouth, because cool people talked about more exciting things than artwork, and he was not ready to be classified as old and uncool.

As Harry nodded again, Mrs. Weasley noted dreamily, "She was here in my time. She gave me such a telling off when I got back to my dormitory at four in the morning―"

"What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?" Bill could not keep the astonishment out of his voice. His mum breaking the rules at Hogwarts, when she shrieked at her own children for the same thing? No way. That was unfair. Still, this was bound to be a fascinating story.

"Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll," his mum beamed, her eyes sparkling as they always did when she spoke about romantic excursions with her husband, although Bill personally did not want to think about what his parents were doing together at four in the morning on this purported walk. "He got caught by Apollyon Pringle, he was to caretaker in those days―your father's still got the marks."

Grimacing, Bill decided that another conversational redirection was in order. Honestly, what would people do without him there to correct uncomfortable discussions? "Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?" he purposed.

"Yeah, okay," consented Harry, and he led them toward the exit.

However, they were not able to depart without being accosted by Mr. Diggory who stopped Harry from leaving with a gruff, "There you are, are you? Bet you're not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedric's caught you up on points, are you?"

"What?" Harry asked blankly, as Bill stiffened, thinking that his brother's best friend was not nearly as arrogant as he had cause to be.

"Ignore him," Bill heard Harry mumble to Cedric, frowning reproachfully at his father, as Harry, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley continued on. "He's been angry ever since Rita Skeeter's article about the Triwizard Tournament, you know when she made out you were the only Hogwarts champion."

"Didn't bother to correct her, though, did he?" Cedric's dad observed voluminously, clearly intending for it to reach Harry's ears. "Still, you'll show him, Ced. Beaten him once before, haven't you?"

At this point, Mrs. Weasley had enough. "Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, Amos! I would have thought you'd know working at the Ministry!"

Mr. Diggory opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off when his wife laid a placating hand on his arm, and he turned away from them irritably. After that confrontation, they had an enjoyable morning wandering over the sunny grounds. Harry was a fine docent, showing them the enormous carriage by which the Beauxbatons students had arrived, as well as the bobbing boat in the lake via which the Durmstrang delegation had been transported to Hogwarts. Unlike Bill, his mum was fascinated by the Whomping Willow, which apparently had been planted after her time, and began chattering about the former gamekeeper Ogg, or Egg, when they passed Hagrid's cottage.

As they reached the greenhouses and Bill's mother finally ceased her babble about Ogg or Egg, Harry asked after Percy, and Bill and Mrs. Weasley explained about how Percy was not doing well, since he was being fried for Mr. Crouch's madness going unreported. Not long after that, they returned up to the palace for lunch, where they were joined at the Gryffindor table by Fred, Goerge, Ginny, and Ron, all of whom seemed shocked to see Bill and Mrs. Weasley. Bill enjoyed the opportunity to chat with his sister for awhile.

After lunch, they roamed around the castle. Once the afternoon was over, they returned to the Great Hall, where they saw all the judges sitting at the staff table. The food was good, and Bill ate more of it than he ought to have. After everyone had finished eating, Dumbledore got to his feet, and, out of habit, Bill broke off in the middle of his conversation with Ginny, and looked at the headmaster.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore announced as soon as all was quiet in the hall, his voice echoing off the enchanted ceiling, "in five minutes' time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament." The blood in Bill's veins pounded in anticipation, as Dumbledore requested, "Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now."

A pale Harry got to his feet as Bill, the rest of the Weasley clan, and Hermione all murmured, "Good luck," and the Gryffindors all down the table applauded. Looking somewhat more confident after their display of support, Harry went out of the Great Hall alongside Cedric, Krum, and the beautiful Fleur, who, hopefully, would not be killed or injured in the upcoming task, as such loveliness should go uncorrupted.

Five minutes later, they were hastening off to the Quidditch pitch, making excited predictions about what awaited the champions in the final, coming competition. When they reached the field, they all gasped when they realized that it had been transformed into a maze of sorts, filled with lethal magical creatures and other perilous obstacles. As they plopped into seats with an adequate view, Bill noticed that the sky was almost completely dark, and the stars were appearing now, twinkling merrily above them all.

As he made this mental note, Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice resounded throughout the stands, contributing to the tense, expectant atmosphere.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you of how the points currently stand. Tied in first place, with eighty-five points each― Mr. Cedric Diggory, and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!" As Bagman made this declaration, Bill cheered and clapped for harry, along with the rest of his family and Hermione. "In second place, with eighty points―Mr. Viktor Krum of Durmstrang Institute!" Thunderous applause flooded the stadium once more, and Bill brought his hands together once or twice before situating them in his lap again. "And in third place―Miss Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons Academy!" Bill applauded more enthusiastically than he would otherwise have done for Fleur, now that he knew she was his heartthrob.

Lord, if she had not been going against Harry, he would have hoped for her victory, but since she was competing against his adopted brother, he would have to cheer for him, not her. Still, he could pray that she did well, just not as well as Harry. There was nothing treacherous in that, Bill ruled after much inner turmoil between various factions of his heart.

Once he had settled that, he could speed Harry off into the maze with hearty cheers and applause. Yes, this would be a night he would never forget.


	44. Chapter 44

He's Back

Disclaimer: For those of you who, like Fudge, have resonance where everyone else has a possibly functioning brain, I don't own Harry Potter. Don't worry the wonders will cease once you start reading my fanfiction.

Reviews: I gobble them up, so please feel free to feed this friendly animal who loves peanuts, though it'll settle for cashews and walnuts.

Author's Note: I tried to keep the maze events in canon, while adding a type of bird's eye view perspective which would result from being in the stands. Make of it what you will. I'll probably not update for awhile, because I've got the HSPA coming up, and I can't graduate high school if I don't pass it, so I apologize in advance for that.

After Bagman's brief whistle blow, the miniature figures of Harry and Cedric darted into the maze. Two sudden yellow blurs indicated that both young men had ignited the tips of their wands. For a minute, the pair of them ran alongside each other. Then, they reached the first fork in the road, and they divided, the minute Harry taking the left path, and the slightly taller Cedric choosing the right. Not long after that, Bagman's whistle sounded throughout the stadium, and a tiny Krum rushed into the maze, his wand alight. Bill's eyes traced Krum long enough to ascertain that the Quidditch star had selected the same path as Cedric, turning right, before he returned his focus to Harry, who had so far gone unattacked by the beasts looming in the labyrinth.

Relieved, Bill looked around for the other champions to monitor their progress, checking whether it threatened Harry. Cedric had been assaulted by a knot of Blast-Ended Skrewts, an his robes were aflame. As Cedric struggled to put out the fire in his clothing, and escape from the monsters, Bagman's whistle crisply rang out, and Fleur charged into the maze, her gorgeous, glowing hair visible even from this lofty vantage, to Bill's silent wish of decent luck. Cedric managed to flee from the lethal creatures, and darted down a path that fed onto Harry's. Bill saw their two minuscule figures converge, and then diverge again.

While Harry fended off a boggart that apparently had disguised itself as a dementor, Bill spotted Krum who was stumbling, disoriented, around the perimeter of the maze, stumble out of a clump of the exterior bushes. He was caught and shoved back in by a professor, who must have employed a quick Healing Charm or something on the Durmstrang champion, since the professor waved his wand. After this incidence, Bill noticed that Krum's navigation improved dramatically. Within seconds, while Harry battled a Reversing Mist, which he did not seem to understand how to vanish, Krum was on Fleur's tail. Bill would have cheered her on, if his mum would not have hurled him off his seat and into the pitch if he did that. It was so unfair, because he could want Harry to win, but still desire for Fleur to pound Krum to a pulp. She could take second or third place, after all. However, Krum had soon caught up to Fleur, whom he suddenly Stunned from behind.

"Coward," Bill hissed, outraged, as Fleur fell to the ground with a piercing, somewhat dazed scream. Unaffected by her distress, Krum casually stepped over her, as if she were dung in his path. Bill shook his head in disapproval. The very least the Quidditch pro could have done was sent up red sparks to summon help for her after he had illegally and unchivalrously taken his opponent out. Luckily, Fleur's scream had attracted Professor McGonagall's interest, and the Head of Gryffindor House hurried in that direction. When she saw what had happened to Fleur, McGonagall levitated the Beauxbatons champion out of the maze.

Now that he was assured that his crush would receive appropriate medical attention, and would not be eaten while she was Stunned by some ferocious beast, Bill focused on Harry once more. Speaking of Stunning, it seemed that Harry was attempting, with minimal success to Stun a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

"You can do it, Harry," Bill hollered, cupping his hands, although he recognized in the back of his mind that the addressed would be unable to hear his encouragement over the thick, towering shrubbery surrounding the maze. At that point, Harry judged that Stunning the Blast-Ended Skrewt was impossible. Instead, he cast an Impediment Spell on the Skrewt, and continued down another path. After taking a few wrong turns, something that elicited moans from Bill, Harry redirected himself, which involved some backtracking. Just when Harry had corrected his error, Bill's attention was abruptly redirected.

Cedric's agonized yells were echoing throughout the stadium. Bill's eyes narrowed as the roved around, trying to find the source of Cedric's anguish. Sure enough, Krum was standing over Cedric on the path parallel to Harry. In a characteristic magnanimous display, Harry burst through the hedges to rescue his fellow Hogwarts champion.

As Harry pointed his wand at Krum, Krum fled. However, the Durmstrang champion, to Bill's vindictive sense of justice, did not get far, for Harry's Stunning Spell hit him square in the back, and he toppled to the ground. Then, Bill saw Harry kneel down, and help a most likely shaky Cedric to his feet. He noted that the two Hogwarts champions seemed to confer for a moment or two before they both sent up scarlet flares from the tips of their wands. Privately, Bill thought that Krum did not deserve such compassion after employing such filthy tactics, and he was convinced that it would be perfectly fair for Krum to be consumed by some dreadful monster , so he could finally be of good use.

After they marked the location where Krum lay with crimson showers of sparks, Cedric and Harry appeared to recollect that they were supposed to be rivals in this maze, and they separated, Harry turning right, and Cedric going right, at the next fork. Bill kept his eyes on Harry, who, as he neared the center, where the Cup was set up, was blocked by a sphinx. Clearly, he had been offered a riddle in exchange for passage, because nothing happened for several minutes, before the sphinx stepped out of Harry's way, and the boy continued to race through the maze, almost at the Cup.

Unfortunately, Cedric suddenly charged in front of Harry from another path, and Bill moaned in disappointment...in a race, Harry wasn't any competition for Cedric, since Cedric was much taller, and had considerably longer legs...

Then, before Bill could truly register it, an acromantula was scurrying down a pathway that intersected with the one the Hogwarts boys were hurtling down...Cedric was going to bang into it! no, he had only just manage to hurl himself past it, but in his haste, his wand flew out of his hand by mistake. No the enormous spider was bearing down on him.

Bill watched as Harry desperately cast Impediment and Stunning Spells on the acromantula to no avail. In fact, the only discernable impact the curses had was to rile the beast, who scooped Harry up with his pincers. Biting his lip so hard the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, and praying for the lad's life, Bill stared, horrified, as Harry frantically kicked at the spider, while Cedric, who must have found his wand at last, attempted to Stun the beast. Then, the acromantula was releasing Harry, who must have cast a Disarming Spell, and both Harry and Cedric shot Stunning Spells at the spider, which keeled over sideways, squashing a row of hedges.

Once the common enemy had been defeated, Bill spotted Harry and Cedric hesitate, conferring once again. After a lengthy exchange, they appeared to have agreed that it was a tie, for they climbed up the plinth on which the Cup was poised together, and they both touched it simultaneously.

Bill's cheer was rapidly transformed into a mute gasp. Suddenly, inexplicably, the Triwizard Cup, and the two teenagers who had been clutching it triumphantly had vanished into the night. After a few seconds, during which shouts of confusion started to fill the stadium, his reason began to catch up with his senses. "It must have been a Porkey," he mumbled to his family, and Hermione, who were all as bemused as he was. "The Cup, I mean."

"Maybe it's a part of the task?" proposed Ron tentatively.

"Honestly, Ron." Hermione rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "Look at Dumbledore—he's hurrying into the center of the maze. Obviously, he's just as surprised and scared by all this as we are, which means that this wasn't part of the task."

For some reason, Bill discovered that he was shuddering at the girl's statement, because if Harry's and Cedric's disappearance were not part of the task, what were they part of? Just who had orchestrated this, and why?

He didn't have an opportunity to contemplate this, however. Instead, he got to his feet, with Hermione and the rest of the Weasley, and raced down the stairs to the field with the hundreds of other audience members. In the confusion, the twins and Ginny were separated from them in the throng, yet Bill was barely conscious of this. They were misplaced in the thousands of feet, including his own, that trampled down the concrete stairwells into the pitch to stand in the dewy grass, and drowned in the hundreds of voices demanding of their neighbors what in the world was happening, and the hundred of contradictory explanations swarming around like mosquitoes.

He would never forget how his stomach had nearly regurgitated all his supper, which he really had gobbled down too much of, when the screeches broke out around him, piercing through the din, "Cedric Diggory's dead!" "He's dead!" "Potter's brought him back!"

So Harry was alive, then, thank God...but Cedric wasn't. Cedric, his nieghbor, whom his brothers had played Quidditch with when they were younger, who was a good fellow, and how had been handsome on the cusp of his manhood, was dead. The life in him had been squashed out as simply as a bug's once a fly swatter had been taken to it, and Bill could not shake of the knowledge that it could just as easily have been Harry that was dead. At this notion, Bill shivered, chilled to his bone marrow, despite the balmy evening.

As he, Ron, Hermione, and his mum began pushing his way through the hordes, attempting to make contact with Harry, Bill found himself jostling past Fleur Delacour. He could not resist glancing at her again. She was sobbing, as she gazed, frozen, as though carved from a glacier, a true ice princess, at the heavens, whose sparkling stars served only to taunt them, smiling and laughing at them all, relishing their suffering, reminding them all of just how insignificant they were in the full scope of the timeless, vast universe. It seared him that he could do nothing to console her, but he had to keep moving on. He had to find Harry, and do whatever he could to assist his adopted brother.

This was the single thought that broke through his befuddled mind, and it provided him with the strength necessary to continue to battle his way through the puzzled, hysterical hordes along with his mother, Ron, and Hermione. Unfortunately, God deigned to be fickle, and abandon them entirely that night, for Harry was nowhere to be seen when they burst into the center of the maze, where Harry had reappeared.

"Where is he?" fretted Mrs. Weasley when they discovered this, as Bill averted his eyes from Mr. and Mrs. Diggory, who were crying over their only child's lifeless form, pleading with him to return to them. "Oh, Lord, where is he?"

"He must have been taken up to the hospital wing," yelled Hermione, and Bill wondered vaguely why he had not reached that conclusion for himself. "Come on!"

The next segment of that frightful evening felt like a slice of a nightmare or a glimpse of hell, for Bill could not fight off the sensation that a monster was chasing him and his companions as they dashed up to the castle, shoving their way through the crowds carelessly, an ignoring the indignant protests that greeted their actions. When they arrived at the school, they did not pause to catch their breath, but rather fled upstairs, and down numerous corridors into the hospital wing, where their noisy entrance was met with a stern, chastising glance from Madam Promfery.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, crossing her arms, as she prepared to give them a thorough tongue lashing for bustling into the hospital wing in such a manner.

"We want to see Harry Potter at once," panted Ron, and Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Bill all nodded in confirmation.

"What?" Madam Promfery frowned. "Potter is not here."

"Don't give me that rubbish," snapped Mrs. Weasley, and Bill flinched out of habit at his mother's tone. "He must have come here, since he must have been injured if whatever happened was enough to kill Cedric."

"I'm telling you, he's not here," repeated Madam Promfery shortly.

"Then where is he?" Bill could hear the impatience coloring his own voice, and struggled to keep his temper in check.

"I don't know, I'm not omniscient," Madam Promfery educated him dryly.

"So you're telling me he didn't come up here at all?" pressed Bill.

"Yes, that's―" Madam Promfery was interrupted when the door flew open with a crash, and Harry, Dumbledore, and a black dog that bore an eerie resemblance to a Grim barged into the ward.

"Harry! Oh, Harry!" Bill mum's exclaimed, expressing everyone's sentiments, as she commenced to dart over to the addressed. However, she had only advanced a yard or two, before Dumbledore stepped between them, and Mrs. Weasley halted, looking wrong-footed.

"Molly," Dumbledore commanded gravely, holding up a hand, "please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet."

_Don't we all?_ grumped Bill mentally, rubbing his forehead, _but most of us won't be getting any until we figure out what the heck happened tonight._ Still, one did not argue with Albus Dumbledore, because he always won, and, moreover, he was always right, anyhow.

Dumbledore's eyes shifted to focus on Bill, Ron, and Hermione as well now. "If he would like you all to stay with him, you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening."

Mrs. Weasleu nodded at the headmaster before pivoting to glare at Bill, Ron, and Hermione as though they were rowdy toddlers misbehaving in a ward at St. Mungo's, and hissed, "Did you hear? He needs quiet."

As Bill rolled his eyes, thinking his mum had been nosier than the three of them combined, Madam Promfery, who was eyeing the black dog with disfavor started to ask, "Headmaster, may I ask what―?"

"This dog will be remaining with Harry for awhile," answered Professor Dumbledore placidly, rebuffing her questions as he had the others, to Bill's faint annoyance. "I assure you that he is extremely well trained. Harry, I will wait while you get into bed."

The grateful gaze harry fixed on Dumbledore as he climbed into a hospital bed caused shame to wash over Bill. Honestly, he was being so selfish. It was obvious to anyone with a fraction of a functioning eyeball that Harry had just endured a traumatic experience, and had just been forced to relive it. Who could blame him for not wanting to describe it twice in a row? It was enough for now that Harry was alive, and seemed only to have suffered fairly minor injuries from whatever had occurred this evening.

"I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge," Dumbledore promised Harry. He turned to go, but added at the threshold, "I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school." After that, he really departed.

Then Bill and the others, including the mysterious dog, settled themselves in the chairs around Harry's bed, and Madam Promfery gave Harry a potion. Before long, Harry had fallen asleep, and quiet engulfed the whole wing.

Until an half hour later, when shouts vibrated outside the hospital wing, riling Bill, because the raised voices would surely awaken Harry, who needed sleep. Besides, what sort of idiots would have a debate outside a hospital wing, for heaven's sake? 

"They'll wake him up if they don't shut up," Bill's mum, who was beside him, complained.

"What are they shouting about?" Bill wondered as he bobbed his head affirmatively. "Nothing else can have happened, can it?"

Mrs. Weasley shrugged, as she tilted her head to better hear the raised voices in the corridor. "That's Fudge's voice," she concluded, "and that's Minerva McGonagall's, isn't it?"

Having heard McGonagall shout far too many times for his liking throughout his school years, Bill nodded, as his mother echoed, "But what are they arguing about?"

"Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva―" Fudge was snarling at the moment, his voice gaining volume as he neared them outside the hospital wing.

"You should never have brought it inside the castle!" shrieked Professor McGonagall, as though she were chiding a first-year student who had punched a classmate in the nose. "When Dumbledore finds out―"

As McGonagall established as much, the hospital doors flung open. Sighing impatiently at the clueless beings who had just intruded upon Harry's specially ordered peace and quiet, Bill yanked back the screen to keep out the noise as much as possible, so that his adopted brother could dream on if he were deaf in one ear.

However, his attempts were doomed to failure, as Fudge strode up the ward toward their congregation, McGonagall and Snape on his heels.

"Where's Dumbledore?" Fudge barked at Mrs. Weasley, and Bill felt for his wand, thinking that the Minister had best watch how he addressed his mother if he did not want sprouts growing out of his nose and ears.

"He's not here," Mrs. Weasley informed the man crossly, plainly not requiring Bill's defense. "This is a hospital wing, Minister, don't you think you'd do better to―"

At that moment, the door opened again, and Dumbledore bore down upon them all, a cold aura surrounding him. "What has happened?" he charged McGonagall and Fudge sharply. Glaring at McGonagall as though she were a child who needed scolding not a powerful witch who reprimanded everyone, he went on, "Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I'm surprised at you I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch―"

"There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore." Professor McGonagall's voice held a trace of hysteria, as Bill tried to figure out who on earth Barty Crouch was. "The Minister had seen to that!"

Frowning at her, Bill realized that he had never witnessed an occasion in which she had been this irate before. Her cheeks were on fire, her hands were balled into fists, and her whole frame trembled with wrath, as her nostrils flared.

"When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight's events," commented Snape, his silky tone causing Bill's skin to crawl as always, "he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle." Bill barely suppressed an eye roll at the Minister's cowardice, as he decided that Barty Crouch must be the Death Eater who had brought about tonight's spectacular entertainment. Well, at least by the sound of it, he wouldn't have to hunt him down to exact revenge. "He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch―"

"I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!" interjected Professor McGonagall. "I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but―"

"My dear woman!" roared Fudge, as if she were a person with a boulder for a brain, instead of someone most people considered inconveniently clever. "As Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when I interview a possibly dangerous―"

"The moment that―that thing entered the room―" McGonagall overrode Fudge, as she pointed vindictively at him, trembling more than ever― "it swooped down on Crouch and―and―" She broke off, but no more words were necessary. It was obvious that she was trying to describe the incomprehensible: the Dementor's Kiss.

"By all accounts, he is no loss!" scoffed Fudge, waving a hand in dismissal. "It seems that he has been responsible for several deaths!"

Bill felt his eyebrows arch. Several deaths?

"But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius," responded Dumbledore, his eyes analyzing every inch of the man to whom he conversed, something that would have made Bill hide behind the nearest object large enough to conceal him. "He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people."

"Why he killed them?" Fudge snorted, sending a hurricane out of his nostrils. "Well, that's no mystery, is it? He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's instructions!"

At this, Bill's interest intensified. You-Know-Who was back then? Was that the core of this contention?

"Lord Voldemort _was _giving him instructions, Cornelius," Dumbledore answered steadily. "Those people's deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemnot has been restored to his body."

Apparently, Fudge's whole memory bank had been modified a second ago, for he blinked at Dumbledore as if he could not comprehend a single word of English. Finally, he sputtered, still goggling at the headmaster of Hogwarts as though he had never been introduced to a human being before, "You-Know-Who...returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore..."

"As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you," cut in Dumbledore, "we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort, learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins, went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort return."

At this pronouncement, Bill gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles went white. This was the news he had been dreading, and somehow he must come to accept it, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. Denying the truth would not make it go away.

"See here, Dumbledore," Fudge sneered, clearly unwilling to face such a grim reality, "you—you can't seriously believe that. You-Know-Who—back? Come now, come now." There was a superior quality to the Minster's comments now, as if he were convinced that he were more brilliant than Dumbledore, something which there had been no evidence for thus far. "Certainly, Crouch may have _believed _himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who's orders, but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore..."

"When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort," maintained Dumbledore. "He witnessed Lord Voldemort's rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office. I am afraid that I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight."

"You are, er, prepared to take Harry's word, are you, Dumbledore?" Fudge's leer grew exponentially.

There was a brief, taut silence shattered only by the growling of the peculiar black dog whose hackles were up as he bared his teeth at Fudge, who leaped back a step. The dog appeared to understand the insult implicit in the Minister's words, but that was impossible.

"Certainly I believe Harry." Dumbledore's azure eyes were ablaze, and Bill felt his own eyes widen, since he had never imagined the benevolent professor in such a temper. Now he fully understood why everyone insisted that he was the only one Voldemort ever feared. If Dumbledore ever gazed at him like that, he would either pee in his pants, or burst into tears, or possibly do both. "I heard Crouch's confession, and I heard Harry's account of what happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup. The two stories make sense. They explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer."

Although he was sweating profusely, Fudge blustered, "You are prepared to believe that You-Know-Who has returned based on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who, well..."

"You've been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge." Cursing, an astonished Bill turned toward the hospital bed, and realized that Harry was awake. A second later, he was berating himself for his stupidity. How could Harry have possibly slept through this commotion? His humiliation was lessened when he noted that Hermione, Ron, and his mother were all as alarmed at Harry's intervention as he was.

At Harry's words, Fudge flushed, but maintained an obstinate facade. "And if I have?" Now, he glanced challengingly at Dumbledore, which was never advisable. "If I have discovered that you've been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And having funny turns all over the place?"

"I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?" inquired Dumbledore so icily that frost almost issued from his mouth.

"You admit that he has been having these pains, then?" Fudge pressed with the air of a prosecuting attorney. "Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly hallucinations?"

"Listen to me, Cornelius." Dumbledore took a step toward Fudge, and Bill scooted his seat back a few inches, because the headmaster radiated a sense of indomitable power, and he did not want to be in the way of it. "Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous."

Unsurprisingly, Fudge retreated several paces, intimidated by the other wizard, and Bill was immensely thankful that he had backed up his chair, because, otherwise, his toes would have been broken by the Minister, though at least Madam Promfery could have mended them for him in about a minute.

"You'll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I've never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before," protested Fudge, his manner implying that loads of beings had survived the Killing Curse and had scars like Harry's to show for it.

"Look, I saw Voldemort come back!" shouted Harry wrathfully, as he started to climb out of bed. However, his attempts at escape were foiled by Mrs. Weasley, who shoved him back into his mound of covers. "I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill spotted Snape make a jerky motion toward his left forearm. Were the rumors that had circulated through Hogwarts that Snape had been a Death Eater valid, then? If so, it was yet another point to add to his "One Thousand Reasons to Hate Severus Snape," which would have to undergo a name change to become "A Thousand and One Reasons to Hate Severus Snape." But if Snape was a former Death Eater, why had Dumbledore permitted him to teach? Was it as some said, was Dumbledore so trusting that he was blind to the serpent under the flower? No, he couldn't doubt Dumbledore. The man had more knowledge than most of the rest of the planet combined.

"Malfoy was cleared," declared an affronted Fudge as Bill returned to the scene unfolding before him. As if it mattered, he went on, "A very old family, donations to excellent causes..."

"Macnair!" Harry's voice rang out in accusation a second time.

"Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!"

"Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle..."

"You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago," snapped Fudge, and Bill was reminded of a young child holding his hands over his ears, and screaming, 'I can't hear you, I can't hear you.' "You could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heaven's sake, Dumbledore, the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year, too. His tales are getting taller and you're still swallowing them. The boy can talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he's trustworthy?"

"You fool!" cried Professor McGonagall and Bill thought that was a rather mild term to use to describe the Minister. She could at least have gone with one of her favorites, "Abysmal fool." "Cedric Diggory! Mr. Crouch! Those deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!"

"I see no evidence on the contrary," Fudge retorted, his face a gigantic plum. "It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!"

When he stated as much, shook Bill shook his head in despair at the Minister's denial. Really, had he thought that You-Know-Who had been defeated all those years ago? And had he forgotten the World Cup so soon? No, he couldn't have. Fudge was merely a coward who was afraid to accept the fact that he might have to fight to make the world safe and comfortable for himself and others, the people who was supposed to be serving. It was pathetic, seeing this mouse in human clothing.

"Voldemort has returned." Dumbledore enunciated every word empathetically. Regaining his normal tone, he advised, "If you accept the fact straightaway, Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors..."

"Preposterous! Remove the dementors? I'd be kicked out of office for suggesting it." Fudge's tone suggested that this was the most important thing in the world, even when compared to the lives of thousands of Britons. "Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!"

"The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort's most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!" refuted Dumbledore, and Bill shivered at this, sensing that Fudge was not about to back down, and that this was going to occur in the near future. "They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!"

Like a goldfish out of water, or a lion unable to roar, Fudge opened and closed his mouth mutely. Dumbledore took advantage of his silence to press on, "The second step you must take at once is to send envoys to the giants."

"Envoys to the giants?" echoed Fudge, who had relearned how to speak English, shaking his head, taking several more steps away from Dumbledore, which forced Bill to scrape his seat in retreat again, so that his toes would not be broken by an incredulous Minister of Magic. "What madness is this?"

"Extend to them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late. Or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!"

"You cannot be serious!" the politician gasped. "If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants—people hate them, Dumbledore—end of my career..."

"You are blinded," Dumbledore snapped, his cerulean eyes more deadly than the hottest part of a flame, and Bill prayed that the magician would never fix a face of such contempt upon him, because if the man did, he would probably wither and die on the spot, "by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any, and see what that man chose to make of his life! I tell you now: take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act, and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!"

Every word of this rang with the authority of absolute verity, yet Bill doubted that Fudge would open his ears, his mind, or his heart to them. Indeed, all he did was take another involuntary step away from the Hogwarts headmaster, this time retreating sideways. "Insane," Fudge mumbled as he did so, "mad."

What followed was one of the most dreadful silences Bill could remember. Throughout it, he kept his eyes riveted on Fudge, willing the man to break down, to see reason, to return to the real world, to act like a human not a politician for once in his life, and knowing at the same time that Fudge would not do any such thing, and assessing what sort of damage the man could be planning. He was not sure what exactly Fudge would threaten Dumbledore with, but he was confident that the Minister would speak next, which was why he was paying so much attention to Fudge.

Yet he was to be proven wrong in this analysis, for it was Dumbledore who broke the quiet pervading the hospital wing first. "If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius, we have reached the parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I shall act as I see fit." Although the statement bore no hint of a threat, Bill sensed one buried in there, and it seemed Fudge detected the same implication.

"Now, see here, Dumbledore," bristled Fudge, waggling his finger as though he was warning an impertinent teenager to watch his tone, because he could still be punished, despite the fact that everyone in the room was aware that Dumbledore was the more potent and the wiser of the two men. "I've given you free reign, always. I've had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I've kept quiet. There aren't many who'd have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you're going to work against me..."

"The only one against whom I attend to work," announced Dumbledore firmly, "is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side."

For a little while, Fudge was incapable of inventing a reply to this assertion. Instead, he rocked indecisively backward and forward on the balls of his small, fat feet, and spun his bowler hat about like a propeller on a Muggle motor boat. In the end, he choked out, an imploring quality evident in his tone, "He can't be back, Dumbledore, he just can't be..."

A wave of resentment crested inside Bill. Of course You-Know-Who could not be back if it destroyed the world view of this little, portly man. Obviously, the world would continue to configure itself to make Cornelius Fudge happy. Just as plainly, Fudge, for all his bluster, would be the first to hide under a desk or table when the shout "Danger approaching" was heard. Due to his massive size, he would also probably be the only one who fit. Not that it would matter a whit to the Minister if everybody else died, as long as he remained safe, and, preferably in power, as long as there were people left to rule over.

Snape must have been repulsed by Fudge's bull-headed behavior as well, for he strode forward, and shoved up the left sleeve of his robes, showing the man what was undoubtedly the Dark Mark, which caused the horrified Minister to recoil, and Bill to gasp at the revelation that his least favorite Hogwarts instructor had once been a follower of Voldemort.

"There." Snape's voice was harsher than usual. "There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord's vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the field."

Shaking his head, Fudge withdrew from Snape, too. "I don't know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have not more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry."

With that, he pivoted, and hastened toward the door. He had almost stepped out of the ward, when he paused, and strode back to Harry's bed, prompting Bill to stiffen and finger his wand. However, all Fudge did was drop a bulging bag of coins on the boy's bedside table with a terse, "Your winnings. One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation, but under the circumstances..."

Yes, at least they could all agree that Cedric Diggory had died, Bill realized morbidly as Fudge departed, slamming the door behind him, though they would ascribe different meanings to the death.

The instant Fudge was out of earshot, Dumbledore gazed around at all of them seriously. "There is work to be done."

"Molly." He focused on Bill's mother. "Am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?" At his words, Bill's back straightened. Why was Dumbledore only talking about his parents? Did he think Bill was too young to fight? Bill shook his head. It didn't matter what Dumbledore thought. He was old enough to battle You-Know-Who this time, and he had no intention of sitting it out on the sidelines. Besides, there was no way Dumbledore could refuse him, when it was obvious that he would need all the help he could get.

"Of course, you can." His mum's resolute statement dragged him back to the present. "We know what Fudge is. It's Arthur's fondness of Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride."

"Then I need to send a message to Arthur," Dumbledore mused. "All those that we can persuade to see the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry that are not as shortsighted as Cornelius."

"I'll go to Dad," declared Bill, rising, and locking eyes with Dumbledore, trying to convey that he was going to be part of the struggle against You-Know-Who, that he would not back down in this, and daring the man to challenge him. "I'll go now."

"Excellent." Dumbledore gave a short nod, which suggested that he had picked up on Bill's unspoken message and was not going to argue with him. Bill relaxed, though he stiffened again when he saw that his mother looked paler than ever, because she must not have thought about him participating in the battle against the Dark forces. However, his focus quickly returned to Dumbledore as he ordered, "Tell him what has happened. Tell him I will be in contact with him shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry..."

"Leave it to me," Bill reassured him, nodding his comprehension. Then, he clapped Harry on the shoulder, trying to send some of his own strength back into the lad. After that, he kissed his mother gently on the cheek, whispering in her ear, "I'll be back at the Burrow in a few minutes, Mum, I promise."

Before she could respond, he wrapped his cloak about him, and departed, wondering how best to break the news to his dad.


	45. Chapter 45

Black News

Author's Note: This chapter is entirely based on my interpretations of the events between Book 4 and Book 5, so there was a lot more room for my creative juices to make a mess here. Anyway, I hope you like it. By the way, the bold italicized writing is Bill's, and the italicized writing is his father's. I am also sorry if you don't think very much of this chapter. Myself, I must admit that it is not one of my favorites. I feel as if I'm missing something in it, but I've no notion of what it is, so please feel free to tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: No, I didn't write Harry Potter, but I did write this whole sentence all by myself, which is even better.

Reviews: I'd love to hear from you, so don't be shy. Just click that button on the bottom of the page, and you'll go on a grand vacation to Reviewland, which is an awesome spot.

As Bill raced down the corridors, and the stairwells of Hogwarts school, his travelling cloak billowing behind him, he had to push his way through the gossiping knots of pupils headed in the opposite direction for a second time that evening. Within five minutes, he was bursting out of the heavy oaken doors onto the grounds. The instant he got out of the gates, he Apparated, and the countryside vanished, replaced by a teeming atrium that was the main level of the Ministry of Magic, a place he had not set foot in since the last time his father had taken him to work when he was eight.

Deciding that the best way to remain secret was not to conceal his presence, but to hide it in a mound of useless procedure, Bill adhered to Ministry protocol by stopping at the security desk to register his wand with the security wizard, before taking the lift to his dad's level. Putting on a delighted, arrogant expression that he imagined Percy would wear if he earned a promotion, he hurried through the Auror cubicles, until he reached the door that led into the broomcupboard that Mr. Weasley shared with the only other member of his department, Perkins. When he thrust open the door, he was relieved to discover that Perkins was not in the office at the moment.

"Dad," he exclaimed as he slammed the door behind him, "I've gotten a promotion." Seeing the other's confusion, he mouthed, "Play along with me."

"Why that's wonderful!" shouted his parent. "I know how much you wanted it."

"Yeah, I've been hoping for it for a month, ever since old what's-her-name retired," Bill went on in the same loud voice. As he offered this declaration, he plopped into the chair opposite his dad's, snatched a scrap of parchment, grabbed a quill, thought for a moment, and then scribbled simply, _**He's back. **_

_What? _Mr. Weasley wrote back, frowning as his brow furrowed like an irrigation field.

_**You-Know-Who is back. Harry and Dumbledore said so. **_

Mr. Weasley's quill remained motionless for a long moment, during which dawning horror climbed steadily on his features, as he struggled to absorb this new data. When he recovered a tad from his shock, he announced in a carrying tone, "I might have a bit of wine left over for a celebration." As he established as much, he scrawled, _What happened? _

_**I don't know. Dumbledore didn't have time to explain it to me, and Harry didn't want to discuss whatever occurred. However, I figured out some stuff on my own. The Triwizard Cup was a Portkey, which transported Harry and Cedric to where You-Know-Who was waiting with some of his supporters, and You-Know-Who attempted to murder Harry, but failed in this undertaking as usual, though he was able to kill poor Cedric. Anyway, Fudge is being a short-sighted, idiotic coward, and won't accept the fact that You-Know-Who is back, so he and Dumbledore had this huge row. Dumbledore wants you to recruit as many Ministry employees as possible, but you must be discreet, Dad, because, if Fudge believe that Dumbledore is interfering at the Ministry, life could get very difficult for those of us who don't live in denial. In fact, our charming Minister has already promised to check Dumbledore's running of Hogwarts, so I anticipate that the school will change for the worse soon. **_

When he spotted his companion's brief nod of comprehension, Bill burned the parchment, destroying any evidence of their conversation. As he did so, he added for the benefit of those outside the office that might be eavesdropping, "The promotion will allow me to move back to England to spend some time with the family at last. Oh, and, thanks for the wine. You're right, it's loads better than anything in Egypt."

Mr. Weasley's pen danced across another scroll of parchment. _Why did you say that?_

_**About the wine? **_

_No, why did you mention being able to return to Britain? If someone checks up on your story, they'll expect to see you in the London branch soon. _

_**Relax. If I have my way, they will. **_

_Explain. _

I'm going to request a transfer to the London branch, so I can be with my family. They'll have to honor my request, because I'm too valuable to lose, and, besides, knowing the shrewdness of goblins, they'll find work for me in England.

_You want to fight him. _

_**Of course. Did you doubt it? **_

The quill was silent and still for a long moment, and then it scrawled, _No._

Trying to gauge the implication of the word, Bill frowned, wishing it were possible to hear tone in written words. Then he inquired, _**Are you mad?**_

_No, scared for you and the whole family—and proud._

While Bill grinned slightly at the last word, he scribbled, Mum didn't seem delighted when I volunteered to apprise you of the current situation. I don't think she wants me involved in the fight against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. She'd probably rather that I stay safe and sound in Egypt.

_She doesn't want you dead. _

I don't want me dead, either. I better go, since I'm supposed to be back in Cairo in an hour, and I want to be in good graces when I ask for that transfer.

Come back home soon.

I will. Bill made this promise before he set fire to the parchment, erasing their correspondence forever. As he rose, he stated at the top of his voice, "I shall be back home soon, because of my promotion, so please have my room in order by then. Thanks for the wine and congratulations, Dad. I'd better go tell Mum. She might buy me some of Honeydukes best chocolates."

With that, he left his father's office, and hastened through the Auror Department, and down the lifts to the atrium, where he registered his departure with the security wizard, whom he had to shake out of a snooze to do so.

Barely an hour later, he was stepping out of the flames of the Gringotts in Cairo, where, as they often did, Louis, Rottentooth, and Foulbreath were lolling indolently against a wall, awaiting his arrival. "The slacker has returned," Louis jested, clapping his co-worker on the shoulder in a gruff welcome. As they started toward the exit, he demanded, "And how did our Beauxbatons champion do in the third task?"

"What?" Bill stared blankly at him as they descended the marble steps, and mounted their camels.

"One day you will find the switch that turns your brain on, and I sincerely hope that it happens sometime before you perish of old age," answered Louis with an exasperated head shake. "I asked you how the Beauxbatons girl did, numbskull."

"She didn't win, in part because she was Stunned by the Durmstrang champion," Bill educated him, realizing with a pang that the Triwizard Tournament meant nothing to him anymore.

"Those Durmstrang brats are all Dark wizards in training, and they're a lot of scumbags, I tell you," asserted his comrade bitterly.

"You needn't be so upset that she hasn't won, you know."

"What's made you come over so noble?" Louis glowered at him. "I'd expect you to be babbling on about the superiority of your puny Potter, unless he hasn't won, either."

"Harry won the Cup," sighed Bill, gazing absently off into the desert as they entered it, "but that's nothing compared to what he's lost, I imagine."

"I've conversed with grains of sands that spoke more sensibly than you," Louis snorted. When silence greeted this, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"I more accurate phrasing would be, 'What isn't wrong?'"

"Very well, then. Tell me how messed up everything is."

"The other Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory is dead, and..." Unable to acknowledge aloud that the monster of his childhood was wrecking havoc again, Bill trailed off, as though if he did not admit it aloud, it would not be true. Probably Fudge felt the same way.

"And?" Impatience laced Louis' manner.

"He's back, Lou," Bill burst out, facing his friend once more.

"Who? Who's back?"

"Must I spell everything out for you? You-Know-Who's back," snapped Bill. This was met with a horrified look on the other man's face, and he pressed on during the ensuing pause, "I shall help you and our companion goblins raid this final tomb for old times' sake, and then, when we return to Cairo, I'm requesting a transfer to the London branch so I can join the battle against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters."

"I understand," Louis assented, and Bill breathed a sigh of relief, as he had been anticipating a snide comment about fleeing Egypt in the end from the senior Curse-Breaker. "Though it's a pity you've got to go. We were a decent team."

"A very productive one, at least," grunted Foulbreath in confirmation.

"Yes, the pair of you brought in kilograms of treasure for the bank," Rottentooth growled affirmatively.

"Well, you could always come back to England and help me defeat You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters?" Bill proposed innocently, smiling at his fellow Curse-Breaker to indicate that he was joking, although he would not mind if the man agreed to do so, because Louis would be a worthy addition to their cause, and Dumbledore did need all the assistance he could receive, even if it came in the form of cynics like Louis. "Actually, we could use all the help we can get, because our Minister, Fudge, is refusing to accept the inconvenient truth."

"I'm afraid that I must decline, as I could not stand the food, and malnutrition would soon render me useless in war," Louis snickered. More somberly, he locked eyes with Bill, and ordered, "However, if you should need an extra wand, William Weasley, during the final showdown, send me an owl, and I'll come as quickly as I can."

"I'll do that, although I reckon that it'll take you until the end of the battle to arrive," laughed Bill.

True to his word, Bill remained in Egypt until they had broke into and looted one more pyramid, before he requested a transfer to London to be with his family. As he had gambled, his request was granted, even if it was done half-heartedly, and with much sullen muttering about how family was devised only to squander the productive years of valuable workers by the head goblin, who snarled at him that the London Gringotts expected him to begin working at seven in the morning a day hence, and that there would be no excuses for tardiness. The head goblin in Cairo had no idea what Bill would be put to in London, but he was confident that the London branch would find a use for him, though not as profitable as the one Bill currently fulfilled in Egypt.

When he learned just how soon his transfer would be in effect, Bill sent Nekhebet to Dumbledore with a letter explaining that he would be returning to London the next morning, and that he was ready to serve the Order in whatever capacity he could. Then, he packed his bags, and prepared to leave. By the time he had finished this, he had received an owl from the headmaster, telling him that on the day of his arrival a meeting for the members of the Order of the Phoenix had been planned for seven-thirty in the evening at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in London, wherever that was.

This was why Bill was to be found at seven-thirty-five on his first night back in England, glancing, bewildered, at number ten and number fourteen Grimmauld Place. There was nothing strange about either of the houses, although they were rather run-down, and had an air of decayed grandeur. What was odd was that there wasn't a number twelve between them, and Dumbledore had specifically told him number twelve...

Abruptly, a massive, dilapidated house sprung up like a weed between number ten and number fourteen, who easily moved out of its way. Sighing in relief, Bill charged at the door. To his surprise, he saw McGonagall sprinting toward the house from the opposite direction. Well, at least he wouldn't be the only one tardy, if she was also running behind the time, and she could hardly scold him for being late, if she were late herself.

"You're back from Egypt, then," observed McGonagall, slightly breathless as she whipped out her wand, and tapped the door once. A series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain followed this action before the door creaked open, as though pulled by a spirit in an ancient myth. "Be sure to whisper in the hall, or you'll wake one of the portraits."

"Yes," he responded softly as they entered the almost total darkness of a damp and rotting hall. Once his eyes had adapted to the lack of light, Bill noticed that the house seemed an odd choice on the part of Dumbledore for the headquarters of the Order, for the house was decorated in a fashion most Death Eaters would endorse, as witnessed in the troll leg umbrella stand and the house elf heads gracing the walls. Obviously, this was another one of Dumbledore's paradoxical ideas about decreasing the power of the dark by increasing it, just like his idea of using You-Know-Who's name. "I just got back, in fact, today was my first day, and I still had to work a full day, because goblins never stop working, and they don't think anyone else should as well."

"I'm surmising that's your excuse for being late," she hissed as she led the way down the hall, filing past numerous malignant, but haughty looking portraits.

"I had to work overtime settling in, because they don't want you to use working hours to do that." Bill felt like he had to defend himself for some reason, despite the fact that she was as late as him. No doubt it was born in the fact that she had been his mentor once. "And I couldn't refuse overtime, because then it would arise awkward questions about where in the world I was hurrying off to."

"The goblins don't support the war against He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, in that case?" McGonagall inquired under her breath as they finally neared the end of the painting outlined corridor.

"They don't advocate war, in general, as it's unproductive, and mostly unprofitable, wasting valuable gold and laborers," answered Bill dryly, as the pair of them commenced descending a flight of narrow stone steps into what must be the basement.

"After all those goblin rebellions?"

"Well, their rebellions are fine, naturally, but ours are always nonsense." Determining that it was her turn to answer some questions, he added, "So, there's my excuse. What's yours?"

"My excuse is that Dumbledore is incapable of organizing a meeting at a time where one of the beings in attendance will not be occupied with another task that he has set her." McGonagall's voice was sardonic. Seeing his arched eyebrows because they had just walked by a sconce, she clarified, "I was on duty. I had to watch over Potter, upon Dumbledore's orders. Soon you'll have to do it, too."

Bill frowned. "We're spying on Harry?"

"Guarding, Weasley, guarding," she corrected in a clipped tone.

"Harry's okay with this?" Bill demanded skeptically.

"He doesn't know about it," McGonagall informed him tersely, "and you won't reveal yourself to him, either." Before Bill could reply, they had reached the bottom of the stairwell, and McGonagall had flung open the door into a kitchen, and he had glimpsed that man...the man that bore an uncanny resemblance to the wizard that had escaped from Azkaban, where he had been locked up for murdering a street full of Muggles and betraying the Potters...wait a minute, the man who was Sirius Black.

All this flitted across his mind in the space of a few seconds. Before he could even be conscious of his movements, he had tugged his wand reflexively out of his pocket, and was pointing at the man, ready to hex him into oblivion. However, he was foiled by Dumbledore, who had glanced up from a scroll when the two magicians entered, and who had spotted Bill's threatening movement, and had Disarmed him. Stunned, Bill stared at his wand, not sure whether he should attempt to retrieve it or not. In the end he settled for pointing an incriminating finger at the dark-haired man. "That's Sirius Black, you know!"

"Yes, we all aware of what my name is, thanks," growled the wizard, starting to rise out of his chair.

"Relax, Sirius." Dumbledore gestured for Sirius to return to his seat, and he complied reluctantly, still glaring at Bill. Facing Bill once more, Dumbledore stated placidly, "You can relax as well. Sirius has been greatly wronged by our justice system, I'm afraid, for he did not murder those thirteen Muggles, nor did he betray Lily and James..."

"That was the work of that slimy rat Pettigrew," mumbled Sirius, as Bill plopped, dazed into a vacant chair. Sirius Black...innocent of all charges? On top of You-Know-Who's resurrection, this was too much for his small mind to handle. Most likely, his brain would be exploding in a few seconds, unless his heart, which was beating at seven times its normal rate decided to kill him first. It was common knowledge that Black was as guilty and as evil as, well, as any of You-Know-Who's convicted Death Eaters, and "doing a Black" was sometimes even utilized as a slang term for any random slaughter of wizards and Muggles.

"Sirius is, in fact, one of us, and he always has been," Dumbledore resumed placidly, as though he were remarking upon the position of the sun in the heavens. "He's even been generous to give his ancestral house to us as headquarters."

"Yeah, it's been the first and last useful thing I've done," Sirius grumbled, wearing a bitter expression.

Dumbledore elected to ignore this, and Bill followed his example. Now he was feeling like an idiot, since he was willing to accept that the Ministry had made yet another mistake, and he probably should not have been so quick to believe them in the first place. Still, it wasn't his fault that nobody had bothered to explain the truth to him once it was obvious that he wasn't a Ministry lackey.

"Sorry about that, er, misunderstanding," Bill said to Sirius once he had recovered enough to control his jaw muscles, rather than just have them hang open in a stupefied gape. Glaring at McGonagall, he complained, "You couldn't have mentioned the fact that I was about to come face-to-face with an innocent man that everyone thinks slaughtered thirteen Muggles and all, during our lengthy conversation in the corridor?"

McGonagall lost her chance to respond to this challenge, when Dumbledore established, "Excellent, now that we are all better acquainted with one another, let's get down to business, shall we? Kingsley," he addressed a black man who radiated a sense of composed prowess, and who wore a single golden hoop earring of which Bill personally approved, "how is the hunt for Sirius coming along?"

"Not very well," Kingsley updated Dumbledore in a deep rumble. "Arthur's been holding up the search for almost a week now, since he's taking so long with his report on Muggle firelegs..."

"The proper term is actually firearms, as I've informed you on countless occasions," Bill's dad interjected.

"However, I must tell you, Arthur," went on Kingsley the Auror, ignoring Mr. Weasley's comment, "that I'll require that report soon, so that I can carry on with the quest to lock Sirius behind Azkaban's bars again, because Scrimgeour has been asking me all sorts of prying questions."

"I'll have it to you tomorrow, or the following day at latest," Mr. Weasley promised.

"Great, because once Scrimgeour gets off Kingsley's back, he can start climbing all over mine," observed a magenta-haired, heart-shaped witch...a witch who resembled Tonks, although Charlie had neglected to mention that she had become an Auror after departing Hogwarts. Catching sight of his eyes upon her, she waved enthusiastically, accidentally upending a fortunately unlit candle in the process. As she righted it cheerily, she greeted him, "Wotcher, Bill. Yeah, it's me again—my mentor Mad-Eye Moody managed to convince me that You-Know-Who has decided to grace us with his presence once more. Anyway, send my regards to Charlie next time you write to him, because it appears that we're allies once more, since he claimed that he would be more than happy to recruit foreign wizards for the Order on his days off. In fact, I'm starting to think that I was a tad, just a tad, mind you, harsh with him when I screamed at him in the Transfiguration corridor in our seventh year."

Before Bill could answer, McGonagall inserted herself sharply, "Now that we have attended to that very critical detail, perhaps we could return to the actual meeting, or we could all disintegrate into our own side-conversations, which I'm confident would be far more constructive."

"Remus," Dumbledore continued into the now quiet kitchen, looking at a thin man with hair and eyes the sheen of dying leaves in autumn, who was decked out in tattered robes, "how is it going with the werewolves?"

This prompted Bill to stare at the rather frail-looking wizard. He had contact with werewolves? Everyone who had the sense God bequeathed a goose knew that werewolves were ferocious beasts that would sooner eat a person than look at them, and this slight man hardly seemed the type to have dealings with them on regular basis.

"Not well," Remus responded, shaking his head. "My kind don't care if You-Know-Who has returned or not, although Greyback, the head werewolf, has been generous enough to inform me that they'll be happy to support him, if he comes calling upon them, because Dumbledore doesn't let them bite the enemy and the enemy children."

"Of course I don't." Dumbledore's eyes sizzled at the notion. "However, you will keep trying, won't you?"

"Absolutely," Remus swore, as Bill stared at him, attempting to accept the fact that this mild-mannered man was a monster, a werewolf. He was not having much success reconciling the two contradictory images, though he was lecturing himself for being an arrogant bigot. Discriminating against this man, because he happened to become a werewolf at the full moon was as unjust as being prejudiced against Muggle-Borns like his school-friend Mike. As Dumbledore reasoned, it mattered not what a person is born but what they grew up to be, who they chose to become. Besides, who was he to judge? Wasn't he himself a filthy blood traitor? No, he would not treat this man differently just because he was a werewolf, because hatred was a slow poison that killed everything it touched, eventually turning inward and destroying even the one who harbored it, and once you started separating the pure from the impure, pretty soon everyone was impure. Anyway, you couldn't keep someone in a ditch, without getting down in the ditch, and getting dirty with them. Speaking of not wanting to treat Remus differently, it probably would be a good idea to cease staring at the other wizard. As this thought occurred to him, Bill refocused his gaze on Dumbledore, praying that Remus had not noticed his scrutiny.

It transpired that Bill had redirected his attention to Dumbledore not a moment to early, for the head of Hogwarts spoke directly to him now. "Bill, you've worked at Gringotts since you've left Hogwarts. It is my hope that you can report back to me if you see any indication that the goblins have been swayed by the Death Eaters, and have decided to join Voldemort." Ignoring the grimaces of all the chamber's other occupants, Dumbledore resumed, "Additionally, I request that you endeavor to persuade the goblins that he is back, and that they should, therefore, be on their guard..."

"That second one won't be too challenging," Bill remarked, "as goblins are constantly on their guard, though they'll probably be miffed it I ask them to do that, because they'll resent the implication that they can't do so, or that they typically don't do so."

"Then skip over that one, if it will compromise your diplomatic position, because the main task I have for you is to convince them that they should get involved in this war, and on our side."

"I still believe that the goblins would not side with You-Know-Who, Dumbledore," frowned Mr. Weasley. "I mean, they had their loses last time he decided that he wanted to rule all of Britain and the rest of the world once he got around to it."

"I don't know," the man named Remus argued, his voice mild, but firm. "Personally, I'm inclined to place them in a similar category as the werewolves. If we want their support, we may have to concede liberties to them that we've been denying them for centuries, because I'll bet these handsome thirty-five year-old robes that You-Know-Who will be promising them all sorts of things, though I doubt he'll keep them if he gains power."

"Remus is closer," Bill stated, looking at Dumbledore, "though I rather think that he paints a too optimistic picture of the goblins. If you want to get somewhere quickly with the species, I suggest you employ this." As he established as much, he rubbed his fingers together in the universal symbol for gold. "In fact, I would suggest that you utilize similar tactics at the Ministry with people like Fudge."

"That would entail outbidding individuals like Lucius Malfoy," noted McGonagall crisply, her lips thin.

"Scratch that plan, then, as we probably wouldn't even have the cash to do that if we all pooled our money." Bill shrugged, and the meeting continued.


	46. Chapter 46

Pretend Friends and Blood Traitors

Author's Note: Percy is my least favorite Weasely character, but I don't hate him. In fact, I can relate to him on some levels, and I don't think he's that bad. His worse flaws are an overvaulting ambition that overleaps itself, and his naivete. Fleur will make a stunning appearance in the next chapter. I haven't forgotten her, never fear.

Reviews: I love feedback, so please hit the button that says "Submit Review" on the bottom of your browser once you're finished reading. I reply to all signed reviews.

Disclaimer: Nope, my name is not J.K. Rowling, and therefore, Harry Potter is not my property, because I don't believe in slavery.

Two days later was one of the worst and longest days of Bill Weasley's life. Of course, it would be one of the lengthiest, because fate elongated the unpleasant days, and reduced the hours in a lovely one, he decided sourly. After spending a majority of his waking hours placing curses on high security vaults in the fathoms of Gringotts bank, he relieved Mundungus Fletcher, a bandy-legged, baggy-eyed wizard, who smelled like a particularly foul bunch of tobacco and stale ale, of one of the Order's two Invisibility Cloaks, and Apparated to outside number four, Privet Drive to spy on Harry Potter.

Fortunately, he did not have to search long for the boy, since the dark-haired lad was sprawling under the living room window in a patch of parched begonias, for some bizarre reason. A strand of Muggle news from the pelevsion or whatever that queer talking box was named, filtered out of the Dursely's open window. Harry must have been listening to it, for some of the tension etched onto his face loosened as the news gradually became less and less significant. When the newsreader finished explaining how another lawsuit was beingfiled against some fast food firm by an obese person who seemed surprised to find that all that junk did add up around the middle, Harry issued an impatient tut rather like a steam engine's, and then rose.

With an invisible Bill on his heels, Harry began tomeander through the streets, seemingly unaware of where his feet were carrying him. Within five minutes, they had arrived in a deserted Muggle park, where Harry leaped dully onto a swing, and started swinging listlessly back and forth, his feet propelling him dully. A distant expression clouded his face, suggesting he was lost in a debate with various aspects of himself. Only when the sun had set entirely, leaving the world and sky indigo, did Harry jump of the swing, and turn homeward, if you could call the Dursley residence his home. By the time Harry had returned to the dwelling of his doting aunt and uncle, Bill's shift was over, thank the merciless Lord, and he was exchanging the Invisibility Cloak with Tonks, who had the night duty.

As he Disapparated for the Burrow, Bill exhaled gustily. The task he had just completed had been an excruciating one. When he had signed up for risking his neck, he had not imagined it would entail this sort of thing, sneaking around behind his youngest brother's best friend. Standing perhaps a dozen feet away from a confused, desolate Harry, and being unable to reveal himself or assist the boy in anyway that mattered had torn at Bill, and exhausted him in ways even a full day at Gringotts could not. It violated the core of his nature, and yet, he had to do it, he recognized that much, because Dumbledore and the rest of the Order expected him to fulfill his responsibilities, even if they were terribly agonizing. At least he only had duty one more time this week...he should be grateful for such a blessing as that.

While he determined this, he had arrived outside the Burrow. Regaining his wits, he opened the door. When he entered, he registered that his mother was finishing concocting a dulcet meatloaf, and his sister was setting the table for supper. Excellent, he offered a weary, mental smile, we're eating soon. I feel like I haven't eaten in a month. With that in his mind, he slipped, exhausted, into a chair. However, this earned him a glower from Ginny.

"You are the laziest bum I ever had the misfortune of meeting, Bill. Instead of sitting there like a wart on a frog, you could help me set the table, if that's not too much exertion for you."

"Oh, the abuses I put up with from my little sister, who's supposed to admire me. Still, don't worry, tigress, I'll help you, anyway." Grinning at her, Bill Summoned nine platters over to him, an action which did not garner his mother's support.

"Bill!" she reproached, ducking the stack of plates that sliced through the air. "Those saucers nearly beheaded me. Your sister's right, for you're a lazy bum. I mean, really, what on earth was wrong with getting off your bottom, and fetching them by hand?"

"That way was far too slow, Mum," teased Bill, as he sent each of the dishes to the appropriate location at the table, and Ginny crossed the room to load the goblets with pumpkin juice.

Not long after that, Mr. Weasley returned home, closely tailed by Percy, whose expression was even smugger than usual, if that was possible, which, apparently, it was. Then, the twins and Ron crashed into the kitchen at their mum's holler, and the family settled into their typical dinner seats.

"I have important news," Mr. Weasley and Percy announced in unison as Mrs. Weasely served everyone slabs of meatloaf and a scoop of green beans. Father and son glanced at each other, before Percy waved his hand in an attempt at a magnanimous gesture. "Go on, Father."

"No, you go first." Mr. Weasley shook his head, and then waited for his third born to continue.

"Very well. Thank you, Father. Anyway, it is with great pleasure that I impart upon you all that I have just been honored to receive a very important promotion."

"Really?" Fred pretended to choke on a mouthful of meatloaf. "Wow, what do you do now? Clean people's toilet bowls, instead of kissing their butts?"

"Do you reckon that they'll learn your name soon?" inquired George in mock seriousness. At this, Ron snorted into his goblet of juice, and Ginny giggled. Even Bill could not stifle a grin. The dreadful duo were horrible and remorseless, but they were nothing if not a laugh.

Before Mrs. Weasley, who was drawing herself up like a bullfrog, could defend her favorite child, her spouse had demanded in a rather terse voice of Percy, "What?"

"I've been promoted to Junior Assistant to the Minister," Percy informed him in a complacent voice. The smile etched on his face implied that he had misinterpreted his dad's tone.

"Percy, you can't be considering taking this job," Mr. Weasley stated firmly.

"It has an annual salary of over eight hundred Galleons." Percy's expression was a mask of incredulity. "Of course I'm accepting it, Father! In fact, I have already accepted Mr. Fudge's promotion, thank you very much. I am not such a fool as to refuse such an opportunity or such a salary, and I resent the implication that I am."

"Frankly, Percy, I think you more the idiot for accepting it." Mr. Weasley shook his head, a similar expression of disbelief carved on his features. In a carefully measured voice, he questioned, "Do you understand why they gave you that job?"

"Because I am a hardworking, obedient, enthusiastic, and clever Ministry employee, obviously, Father."

At Percy's words, Bill buried his head in his palms in defeat. Honestly, his second brother could be astonishingly thick sometimes when it came to accepting grim realities of human nature. The only reason Fudge would have promoted Percy was to employ him as a spy against his own blood, and, indirectly, against Dumbledore.

"No," Mr. Weasley was responding, his voice sharper than it usually was when he was addressing his offspring. "Wrong answer. This just proves that you can read all the books you want, and still be incapable of thinking intelligently. Can't you see that they've hired you to spy on your own family, and Dumbledore?"

"It's your vision that needs to be rectified, not mine, for that's not true!" Percy's face was a scarlet splotch as he dropped his fork with a resounding clatter.

"I'm afraid that it is your eyesight that needs to be tested not mine, because it most certainly is true." Mr. Weasley was shouting now, as he, too, threw down his cutlery. "We live in a real world, Percy Weasley, come back to it. You're aware of how Fudge has become Big Brother lately: sneaking about, breathing down everyone's neck to ascertain that they're not having contact with Dumbledore the Great Heretic."

"So what if he has?" sneered Percy. "He's the Minister, and he may do whatever he pleases within the bounds of the law―"

"Which he has taken to modifying a lot recently!" Bill flinched at the contempt in his father's tone.

"You would do well not to criticize your superiors," Percy snapped, his eyes blazing with wrath. "Can't you comprehend that the Minister of Magic is wiser than you?"

"Percy," Mrs. Weasley gasped. However, Percy paid her no mind, as though she were a beetle he had just trampled.

"Did it ever enter your pea-sized mind that there's a reason why he's higher up than you are at the Ministry, and did you ever consider that there might be a reason why you have such a lousy reputation at work? Or are you just too arrogant to do that? Or just too idiotic?"

"It's the Fudge that you worship who is the arrogant fool!"

"Those are the words of a jealous man, and a weak one," retorted Percy.

"Fudge has replied upon Dumbledore ever since he got the job. Who's the weak one, now?" scoffed Mr. Weasley, and Bill mentally confirmed this, wishing his little brother would back down, and see the light of reason and truth. "He can't manage on his own, and he'll soon learn that the hard way."

"Now Dumbledore has gone senile, so Mr. Fudge is prudent to sever ties with him."

"He's not senile, and he's not in denial, unlike your Fudge," rebutted Mr. Weaslet heatedly. "At least Dumbledore isn't refusing to deal with the truth."

"Excuse me, but what truth are you referring to― You-Know-Who returning? How in the world do you even know that's the truth?" Percy shrilled, and Bill groaned at his sibling's stupidity.

For a few seconds, the ire washed off their dad's face, and was replaced by shock. "How I know it's the truth?" he echoed, stunned. "How do I know?"

"That's exactly right," Percy affirmed, sounding pompous once more. "The only proof you have is Harry Potter's word." When he heard these words, Bill felt his spine stiffen. Was his sibling blind enough to believe the _Daily Prophet's _portrayal of Harry as an attention-crazed, deluded adolescent?

"You don't trust Harry?" demanded Mr. Weasley. "You've known him for years―how can you mistrust him?"

"He's a decent enough boy," Percy conceded, as Ron chucked a forkful of meatloaf in his direction, though it narrowly missed its target. "However, he's desperate to be the center of attention, so he obviously just concocted a story about You-Know-Who returning to manipulate the terrified millions into worshipping him, and Dumbledore was dumb enough to take him at his word!"

"You believe all the rot _the Daily Prophet_ spews about him, then?" Mr. Weasley's eyes narrowed.

Solemnly, Percy bobbed his head in assent. "Still, I have to admit that Harry's more of a man than you. At least he has the ambition to seek attention, unlike you. Your lack of ambition is the reason we're dirt poor, because you never worked hard enough to rise in the Ministry. In fact, the only thing you provided me with was an example of how not to behave."

Bill's mouth fell open in horror. What was happening? How could Percy's voice such hateful sentiments? Sure, their father had never been able to afford to provide them with many toys or new robes, but he had invested far more than gold in his offspring. He had spent valuable time and energy on them, and Bill suspected that his dad may have sacrificed his career for his family, and it only made him love the man all the more.

"I'm your father!" snarled Mr. Weasley, his neck and ears crimson. "Watch how you address me, son."

However, Percy was furious enough to override his parent entirely, "You're a blasted imbecile to run around with Dumbledore. He's headed on a crash course, and everybody with four semi-functioning brain cells recognizes it. Why can't you? You should detach yourself from him while you still are able, but you won't, because you're too loyal." The final assessment came out as though it were an atrocious charge like murder. "It will be your ruination, mark my words."

"You're a traitor to your House, and your family," Mr. Weasley shouted.

"Is that the best you can hurl at me?" Percy's ears was the color of bacon strips. "Who cares if I'm a traitor to my House? Gryfffindor is worthless to me. I was only placed in it, because the Sorting Hat was too lazy to look beyond my Weasley hair."

"You should've been in Slytherin!" screamed Ginny abruptly. Turning to her, Bill realized that tears of anger and sorrow were sparkling in her eyes, and his heart went out to her, since his emotions were as confounded as hers.

"Yeah, I wish you had been," contributed George.

"It would have made the parties after victories on the Quidditch pitch much more awesome," Fred added vindictively. Both twins looked uglier and more bitter than Bill had ever witnessed them to be.

Ignoring the three vehement interjections, Percy drew himself up loftily. "Anyway, Father, if I am a traitor to my family, you're hardly one to do the accusing, because you and Mum have betrayed the Ministry."

"Percy, please―" Bill's mother faltered, but her third son cut across her.

"Let me tell you something else, Father. I know where my loyalties lie, and if you're going to follow Dumbledore like a blind lunatic, then, henceforth, we are enemies." At this, Mrs. Weasley sobbed, and Bill thought that his heart would cease beating in his chest. How long would it be before wands were pulled out? he wondered dazedly.

"If you're going to betray the entire magical world, then I am going to make certain that the whole world recognizes that I don't belong to this family." Percy rose, denouncing them all in one swift movement. Then, he stomped up the stairs to his bedroom.

Suddenly, Bill remembered how he had stalked up that same stairwell, declaring to his mother that he was leaving home, and was never going to return again…how he had not used magic tp pack…how he had allowed his dad to catch up to him, and to convince him to stay and make peace with his mum. From there, he abruptly recalled how he had accused his dad of not having enough ambition to get a job that would support his family, words that were eerily reminiscent of Percy's, when he had wanted money for that exchange trip to Brazil. Hope flooded him briefly. Those times had ended happily enough, so maybe everything would work out this time.

Yet, Percy seemed to be using magic to pack, unlike Bill, and Mr. Weasely did not seem inclined to chase after Percy, and his wife was crying too much to move. Personally, Bill had no idea how to soften his brother's stance, since he had never been able to chat with his second sibling, so he stayed where he was, bound to his chair like an inmate in Azkaban. And Percy did not appear poised to apologize as Bill had done when he had charged his father with the same crimes all those years ago.

Percy's trunk landed on the kitchen floor with a dull thud that resounded in the taut atmosphere, and dragged Bill back to reality with a bump. A minute later, its owner descended the steps, as well. "Farewell," he commented stiffly, as he conducted his trunk out the door.

"It seems you're no son of mine, but Fudge's boy," Mr. Weasley remarked, his tone glacial.

Percy glared at him, and then slammed the door. Watching him go, Bill began to comprehend why everyone loathed blood traitors so much. Evidently, the trouble twins shared like emotions, for they tossed forkfuls of meatloaf at the door through which Percy had just exited, and their mum was too busy wailing into her hands to chide the,. Meanwhile, Ron and Ginny were glaring after Percy.

"Dinner was excellent, thank you, Molly." Mr. Weasley's voice was hollow as his chair scraped across the floor when he got to his feet. He dumped at least half of his meal into the garbage bin, and headed for the steps.

"Wait, Dad," Bill called after him, remembering something the man had said earlier, before the blow-up that had torn their family to smithereens.

"What?" Mr. Weasley pivoted about to face him, the lines of his face still harsh after his confrontation with his third child, who had just disowned them, or been disowned by them.

"You said you had news for us," Bill reminded him.

"Right, everyone pack your bags, because tomorrow we're moving into number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

Two days later, Bill decided to visit Mike and Chris at work to give them a litmus test on where they stood in the fight against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. Choosing to check in with Mike first, he hurried to the _Daily Prophet_ headquarters in the throbbing heart of London during his lunch hour off of work. The receptionist directed him to Mike's office, and within five minutes, he was knocking on his old friend's door.

Mike glanced up as he entered, his azure eyes widening with recognition. "Bill―Bill Weasley!" he exclaimed, beaming, as he bounced out of his leather seat, and clapped Bill heartily on the back. "It's so amazing to see you again. Oh, do sit down." He indicated a matching leather chair opposite his own.

As Mike returned to his seat, Bill settled into the other leather chair. "You've returned from Egypt, then?" inquired Mike.

"Right in one." Bill nodded. Thinking at the moment it was best to be cautious in this exchange, he explained, "The work in Egypt steal much from a man, so I figured that I'd return home for awhile, and spend some time with my family before I start making a home with a pretty English girl."

"That's an excellent plan," Mike responded on a laugh.

"Speaking of marrying lovely English girls―" Bill pointed at a bride and groom photo, whose occupants were waving merrily, that was placed on the desk, and whose groom bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael O'Connor― "who's that?"

"That's, um, my wife Tammy―we've been married for two years now." For the first time, Mike looked awkward. "I would've invited you to the wedding, but we hadn't been in contact for years, and I thought you might have forgotten about me."

"No sweat." Bill endeavored to ensure that the smile remained in place, even though he was surprised and a little stung. "I understand completely. So you're happy with Tammy, then?"

"Oh, yes, very."

"That's great." After that, Bill could not think of anything to destroy the uncomfortable atmosphere. In the end, he merely remarked, "I'm sorry to say that I haven't kept up with your writing while I was in Egypt."

"It's fine," Mike reassured him quickly. "I know how a life can get filled up, and all, and old friends can fall at the wayside. That's not to say that they don't matter anymore, because they so, since they've provided wonderful memories. However, they're not the center of your life like they once were. Anyway, when I'm trying to say is, we shouldn't feel guilty about not keeping in touched since we've been at other ends of the globe, although now that you've moved back to Britain, that should be easier, because Chris and I could do a fair job maintaining our friendship."

"I'm going to drop by at the Ministry to catch up with Chris soon. Now that I'm back home, I've been reading the _Daily Prophet_." This was the opening of the litmus test.

"That's cool."

"I have to admit I'm a little puzzled by some of the things I see in it," Bill remarked as tough it was a throw-away observation of no real import. "For instance, the paper has taken to referring to Dumbledore as a senile lunatic, and the Potter boy as a power hungry nutcase."

"Yep, that's about right," answered Mike casually.

Disgust deluged Bill. Acting on a nasty, suspicious impulse, he leaned forward, and snatched the article Mike had been penning before his entrance, and read the opening line aloud, "In a tale worthy of Harry Potter that only an airhead like Dumbledore would believe, Icarus Hilborn declares that he has flown to the moon and back again last night on his antiquated Comet Two-Sixty. Mr. Hilborn has seen taken to the lunatic ward of St. Mungo's." At that point, Bill ceased reading, and focused serious chestnut eyes on his companion. "Why do you speak so of Dumbledore and Potter, Mike? What have either of them ever done to you?"

"You wouldn't understand, Bill, if you've only just got back," soothed Mike, "but the pair of them have been creating all sorts of trouble since June with their doomsday tales of You-Know-Who being resurrected."

"So you definitely think their story is nonsense." Bill arched his eyebrows in question, willing his old friend to answer negatively, and prove that his mind was still his own and untainted.

"It doesn't matter what I believe," replied Mike with a lackadaisical shrug. "The paper tells me what to write, and I write it, because if I don't, I'd lose my job, and then what would my wife and I do, huh?"

"Great Scott, Mike, would you look at the time?" Bill forced his expression to remain unrevolted, and kept the acidic words racing inside him from bursting out, though he comprehended that his mask would not endure long, so he would have to escape quickly, because if the mask broke, Mike could no longer be trusted. This stark fact seared Bill. It cut him and it caused him to grieve for everything that they had once had and lost, and everything that Mike had once been, and now was not. "My lunch break is almost over. I'd better get back to the bank."

"I'll owl you about going out to lunch or dinner sometimes," Mike shouted after him as he departed. "You should meet Tammy, because you'll really like her."

Bill waved his understanding, although he privately prayed that he would never have to meet Michael O'Connor face to face again in his life. With a dejected heart, he Apparated into the Ministry atrium. After he checked in with the Ministry Security guard, he rode the gilded lift up to Chris' office. He asked a pretty witch in blue robes for directions to Chris Brown's office, and then followed them into the small room, where Chris was busy scribbling on a piece of parchment.

He looked up from his work as Bill entered, and his eyes grew to twice their normal diameter as Mike's had done a few minutes earlier. "Well, if it isn't Bill Wealsey, finally returned from the land of the mummies, but not the daddies."

"Yes, I'm back to visit my family before settling down to make my own," Bill smiled, praying this conversation would end better than the one with Mike had.

"Good for you. I wish you the best of luck. Having a family is great." As he asserted as much, Chris gestured at a photo with a laughing and beaming mum and dad and a waving male toddler, who appeared about one. "There's my wife of three years, Elizabeth, and our son, Tommy. Beth works in the Magical Law Enforcement Office."

"Congratulations on your marriage and baby."

"Thanks."

"Mike claims there's a wild rumor circulating about You-Know-Who being back," Bill observed indolently. "What do you think of that?"

"People who believe that codswallop make me laugh my head off," chortled Chris, and his comrade struggled not to display disappointment that his other best pal from Hogwarts had been swept up in the vortex of Ministry lies. "I mean, they seriously believe that he's back after all these years. That's just hysterical."

"Yeah, hilarious." Bill hoped his tone was not as empty as his heart felt. "Well, my lunch break is almost over, mate, so I'd better dash, because I don't want to lose my job. Just wanted to let you know I was back."

"I'll send you an owl about having you around for dinner," promised Chris as the other man prepared to depart. "Beth will want to meet you, and Tommy's starting to say 'Mummy' and 'Daddy,' and he's really cute."

"I can't wait to meet them." Bill offered the rote response as he shut the door behind him.

Tears tore at his eyes as he hastened to the lift. His two former best friends were dead to him. No, he was not angry at them, just disappointed, because they had betrayed themselves. When they were at Hogwarts, Chris and Mike had been infinitely braver than they were now. The adolescents that had played hangman in McGonagall's class and whispered insults behind Snape's back had contained more courage than the grown men who believed whatever their superiors instructed them to, which was the recourse of the small, who were doomed to remain children forever.

With a jolt, he remembered them piling their hands on top of each other, and vowing in one voice, "We'll be best friends forever." As the memory intruded upon him, Bill snorted as he walked into the lift, and punched the button for the atrium level. Sure, Chris and Mike were willing to be best friends with him as long as he was the shiniest star in the sky, and as long as it was simple, but the instinct that was no longer true, they had vanished. Maybe he was being too judgmental, for it was entirely possible that their growing apart was natural, and they had only moved away from Bill because they had chosen to stay still, rather than move and grow.

Apparently, he still seemed more irritated than usual when he arrived back in the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place, where his mother was chattering with Remus as she cooked a potato casserole, for the moment he entered, Mrs. Weasley asked, "What's wrong, dear?"

"Nothing, just the fact that Chris and Mike are Ministry fools, and, because of that, our friendship is essentially over," Bill informed her gloomily, as he poured himself a glass of wine to fill the emptiness inside him.

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Weasley murmured in sympathy.

"It's not your fault, and, anyway, I'm not complaining, as Dumbledore has endured the same nightmare all summer," he answered, sipping his wine. "Betrayal shouldn't take me by surprise after witnessing that sort of double-crossing and backstabbing."

"But it did," Remus noted quietly, causing Bill to jump in alarm, and then glare at him, miffed.

"I wasn't aware that I was addressing you."

"Then I won't say how it's the worst thing in the world to feel abandoned by a friend. I won't tell you how desolated and devastated I felt when I heard that Sirius, one of my best friends, had turned his back on Lily and James, two of my other best mates, and how horrible I felt when I learned that I had misjudged Sirius so much that it surprised me to hear that he could blow up Peter and a street of innocent Muggles."

"But he didn't do those things," pointed out Bill on a thoughtful frown.

"I thought he had, so it amounts to the same thing," argued Remus.

"I'm too tired to debate with you," Bill grinned. "We should chat more often, thought. You're responsible for trying to convince the werewolves to ally with us, correct?" For some reason, he found that his interest in the man had been piqued.

"Yes, and you're our goblin expert."

"I attempt to be that. Maybe we should swap tips on dealing with different magical creatures sometimes before or after a meeting," suggested Bill, thinking it might be possible to forge a new bond with this man to replace the one he had just lost with Chris and Mike.

"You're opening yourself up to another betrayal, you know," Remus commented, "because I am agreeing to exchange diplomacy ideas with you."

"I'll take that risk." As he established as much, Bill drained his goblet, and placed it in the sink with its fellow dirty dishes, before crossing over to the doorway. "I would be so lonely if I didn't open my heart again, and isn't that what living is all about? See you around."


	47. Chapter 47

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to my maternal grandfather who died on Wednesday night of a heart attack, because he always loved the fact that I read and wrote so much. If anyone has time to say a quick prayer for him, I'd appreciate it so much. Anyway, I scribbled this chapter during the English hour and a half of my SAT prep, since my English scores are insanely high, but my Math scores are only about one hundred fifty points above average, so I have to pull them up. Therefore, I'm sorry if it's not my best chapter yet, but I've been under pressure a lot recently. On a happier note, Fleur makes a speaking appearance in this chapter. Yahoo! I hope you like my portrayal of her. Happy Easter to all Christians! Enjoy any vacations for everyone. 

Reviews: A comment can really brighten my day so much, so if you have an extra second or two, please take the time to submit a review. I appreciate it so much. Free Girl Scout cookies will be given out while supplies last. 

Disclaimer: In a _Freaky Friday_ parody, J.K. Rowling and I switched bodies, so I'm now her. (Oh, no, wait, we just switched back, and I'm just a stressed-out teenager again.) 

All in a Day's Work

Ragnok, the goblin director of public relations for the London branch of Gringotts, was not one of the more agreeable members of his species, if there were indeed any agreeable goblins on the planet, Bill Weasley reflected glumly over his beer and sandwich at the Leaky Cauldron. In fact, he found himself reminiscing fondly upon his dealings with Rottentooth and Foulbreath, as he watched Ragnok drain his third tankard of Firewhiskey. Bill could not quite contain a scowl, since the goblin had twisted him into paying the bill in exchange for the invaluable opportunity to converse with him during their coinciding lunch hour. Well, perhaps he could wrangle the money out of Dumbledore. It was a pity, now that he considered the matter, that the teaching occupation did not pay better...

"So, what was it you wanted to discuss?" Despite the copious amount of mind-altering substance he had consumed, Ragnok still had the requisite soberness to eye Bill with the shrewd, penetrating wariness that was the hallmark of his species. His Gobbledegook was also not slurred. 

"Have you heard the rumors circulating around about You-Know-Who returning to power?" Bill inquired in Gobbledegook, leaning forward so that his voice could not be heard over the voluminous noise engulfing the pub, although he doubted that few of the bar's patrons could translate the tongue of the goblins into English, especially in their conditions. 

"Of course," leered Ragnok. "Dumbledore has just been fried, and lost his place on the Wizengamont because he stated publicly that You-Know-Who is back." 

"What do you think about it?"

"About the rumor, you mean?" 

"Yes." 

"I don't give a gnat's dropping about it either way, Weasley," growled Ragnok, gesturing for a waitress to bring him yet another tankard of Firewhiskey, and prompting a wave of irritation to wind up and down the kinks of Bill's spinal column. "Wizarding wars as a rule do not impact goblins, although sometimes they offer us a valuable chance to gain more gold―" 

"Then you'll enjoy the spoils of war, while those around you suffer and die for their convictions?" Bill arched his eyebrows as Ragnok's fourth Firewhiskey arrived, and the goblin quaffed it down. He struggled to keep the judgment out of his tone. 

"Humans are always so melodramatic." As he established as much, Ragnok shook his head in disapproval. "Your precious convictions will mean little once you're lying as cold as stone in a grave. 

"And you think that you'll get through everything scratch-free if You-Know-Who returns, do you?" scoffed Bill, striving to manipulate the goblin's innate self-centered, survival-oriented nature to his advantage. "If you do, you're misguided in your assumption. Don't you recollect the goblin casualties that occurred last time he came to power in Britain?" 

"You don't have any proof beyond Dumbledore's and that Potter boy's word that he's returned, Weasely," Ragnok snarled as he gulped away ungratefully at the drink Bill rued purchasing for him. "Even your own Ministry doesn't accept it."

"The Ministry would believe anything it benefitted it to believe, and wouldn't accept any fact if it jarred their complacent, pleasant life," the human responded bitterly. "Truth doesn't mean anything to them. They would assert that the earth was the center of the universe or that two and two equals five if they thought it would advance them to do so. Frankly, I'm surprised you don't realize this." 

"That the Ministry is willing to dogmatically support erroneous claims doesn't prove that they're doing so in this case," reasoned Ragnok. 

"Granted, but, obviously, one of the two parties are lying in this case, and who would you trust more, Dumbledore, or the cannibalistic politicians?" 

"Hmm, well, Dumbledore has always been honorable in his dealings with the goblins in the past, which is unusual enough among your lying species," Ragnok hedged, a calculating glimmer in his eyes, "but, then again, the _Daily Prophet_ proclaims that he is senile." 

"The Daily Prophet is ninety-nine percent exaggeration and fiction, and one percent half-truth. Its advertisements are the most accurate part of it. Besides, it's merely the megaphone of the Ministry. I'm amazed that someone who would classify themselves as halfway intelligent would swallow a word it says." 

"Let's say I was lunatic enough to accept Dumbledore's version of events, what then, Weasley?' growled Ragnok. "How would it benefit me to stand against You-Know-Who? Why shouldn't I allow him to murder the magicians that have so long oppressed my people? After all, numerous goblins have still not been paid by Ludo Bagman…" 

"Those goblins were foolish enough to wager, and whenever you gamble, you lose, as the prudent goblin epigram announces. Anyway, what you're saying sounds like petty vengeance to me." Bill shook his head. When the goblin opened his mouth to retort, the man held up his hand to quiet him. "Never mind, let's not debate the point. Anyhow, I should imagine that there are plenty of advantages for you and your kind, if you involve yourself in our battle. For if you fight alongside wizards and witches, then we'll have to treat you as wizards and witches. You might be able to attain the right to carry wands, even." 

"Then we won't have to hire cheeky people like you," Ragnok grumbled, finishing his final drink, and shoving himself away from the pub table. "Speaking of which, Graysavion wants you to throw some more protection around the Keane's vault on level K-1. Tell him when you have done so." 

"Right. Thanks. I'll see to that." Not exactly satisfied with the meeting's progress, but knowing better than to push a goblin, Bill got to his feet, as well. 

An hour and a half later, Bill completed adding the extra security measures to the Keane's vault, and went to Graysavion's office area to inform him of this. When he entered, the reason why he had come briefly fled from his memory banks at the sight of Graysavion's secretary. Her lengthy sheet of molten silver hair glistened in the sunlight that filtered through the window behind her, making the top of her head a halo, as she hunched over scrolls of parchment, her quill moving slowly. From his vantage point, he could see that her ruby lips were quirked as she thought about what to write next. Gosh, he would pay so much to be able to touch those lips with his hand…or his own lips...

Apparently, the intensity of his scrutiny had alerted her to his presence, for she focused her piercing blue eyes upon him…piercing eyes that were oddly familiar for some reason. "Yes." She raised one eyebrow at him inquiringly. She had a thick, attractive French accent, and Bill realized that she must be Fleur Delacour, the young lady who he had glimpsed at the World Cup and at the Triwizard Tournament, as the Beauxbatons champion. Although he had no clue why she was here, he was delighted to meet her once more, and talking to her would be great, if he could get his jaw to function adequately, that is. 

"Is Graysavion about?" he replied after an interval of thirty years or so. 

"No." The curtain of silver hair swept about sensually as Fleur shook her head in negation. "Can I azzizt you?" 

"You mean, 'Can I help you?'" Bill corrected her automatically, and then berated himself for sounding as pompous as Percy. The thought of Percy caused a sudden spurt of pain to shoot through him. 

"Yes, zat's what I said." Fleur stiffened, miffed. "'Elp and azzizt are synonymous. It's not my fault zat you don't know 'alf of the words in your own confusing, 'arsh, and ugly language." 

"Help and assist are synonyms the way 'tears' and 'salty secretions from the visual cortex' are," laughed Bill. Instantly, he regretted doing so when she glared at him with all the regal disdain of a vexed lioness. Before he could attempt to salvage the situation, she had spoken again in a decidedly icy voice. 

"Can I 'elp you, zen?" 

"Yes, please inform Graysavion that Bill Weasley placed the extra precautions on the Keane's vault as he requested." 

After she jotted this down on a piece of parchment, mouthing the foreign English words to herself as she did this, she added, "Is zere anything else I can 'elp you with?" 

"No, but I think we've met before." 

"I doubt it. I zink I should remember someone as mean to me as you are." 

That stung, since a lack of kindness was not an accusation generally tossed his way, but he plunged on anyway, marveling that talking to this French girl was more difficult than fighting against the Death Eaters. "You were at the World Cup." 

"Along with 'alf ze rest of ze planet, yes." Exasperated, Fleur returned her attention to the numerous documents piled on her marble desk. 

"And you were the Beauxbatons champion, weren't you?" he finished somewhat desperately. "I saw you at the final task." 

Now, Fleur's cerulean eyes glowed with a hint of curiosity as they flickered up to him again, something that caused his stomach to churn, a product of the ale, no doubt, although he had only consumed one mug. "You attended ze final task?" 

"Yeah, my brother Ron is Harry Potter's best mate, so my mum and I decided to attend the last competition to cheer our adopted Weasley on." 

"Oh." Enlightenment shone on Fleur's face as she absorbed Bill's red ponytail and fang earring. "I remember ze ponytail and ze earring now." 

"I'll take that as a good sign, mademoiselle," Bill smiled, recalling how she had gazed at him almost like a flirt then. 

"You speak French?" demanded Fleur eagerly. 

"No," he educated her gently, feeling like a monster when he glimpsed the disappointment in her eyes. "I can only say that, and 'Monsieur', 'Madame,' the names of a handful of foods, and words you ought not to employ around a lady. My instructor and co-worker Louis, an old Curse-Breaker bachelor, taught me all the French I know, you see." 

"Oh, I thought…" she trailed off for a moment, and then inquired, "Do you zee much of 'Arry?" 

"A bit," Bill replied neutrally, not sure how she felt about the boy. 

"Zat's good. I 'oped zat he was zeeing a lot of 'is friends― zat redhead boy who flirted with me constantly, and zat know-it-all girl who 'ated me― because 'e needs zem now." As Bill grinned at the description of Ron and Hermione, Fleur irately yanked out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "Your newspaper 'as been 'orrible to 'im lately." 

"You believe him, then." 

"Of course," Fleur pronounced vehemently. "I saw Cedric Diggory come back dead, and I know it would take much to kill 'im, and I know zat 'Arry is not a powerhungry person, as your newspaper would 'ave me think." 

"No, he's not," murmured Bill, "in fact, he's one of the noblest and humblest beings I've ever met." 

"'E saved my sister during the second task when 'e could 'ave just returned with 'is own 'ostage." 

"He saved my sister, too." Pained, he shut his eyes, remembering how close to death Ginny had been, and how he had nearly lost his little sister. 

"We 'ave more in common zan I thought," admitted Fleur, "and talking to you went better zan I thought it would, but I 'ad better get back to work now. I came 'ere to learn English, and I don't want to be fired before I can do zat." 

"Wait," Bill ordered as she went back to her business. She glanced up at him again. Trying to sound calm, poise, and casual, he remarked, "If you've come here to learn English, perhaps I could provide you with some private lessons free of charge." 

"I'd appreciate zat." After a moment's hesitation, Fleur nodded, and Bill's insides performed a victory dance. 

"Then I'll take you out to lunch during break tomorrow. Meet me on the steps, mademoiselle." As he departed, he called over his shoulder, "Never fear, Fleur. One day your 'th' won't be a 'z', and your 'h' won't be nonexistent. It should happen two hours prior to the apocalypse, I reckon." 

The warm fire of ardor blazing inside his chest that resulted from his successfully getting Fleur Delacour to spend private time with him burned with uninterrupted fervor until he entered number twelve Grimmauld Place, where he was instantly besieged by his mother. "Oh, good, it's you, Bill."

Bill raised his eyebrows at her in a mute question. 

"I want you to run an errand with me," she explained breathlessly. 

"What errand?" 

"I've figured out where the flat Percy rented is located, and I want you to come visit him with me." 

"Why?" frowned Bill, his forehead knitting in consternation. "Percy and I have never been exactly close. I mean, it's like we're not strangers, but we're not friends, either." 

"He's always admired you, you and Charlie, too," answered Mrs. Weasley, her brown eyes moistening as they frequently had done ever since Percy marched out of their lives without a backward glance, "and if any of his brothers stand a chance of talking him around, it's you." 

"I'll come along with you, of course, and I'll do the best I can to convince him to come back to us," promised Bill. 

His mother nodded, her eyes still filled with extra water. "That's all I ask." 

However, the fates dictated that he and Mrs. Weasley never had much of an opportunity to get Percy to come around, for when their estranged family member opened the door of his flat, and registered who his guests were, a million contradictory emotions, among them guilt, shame, fear, and ire, appeared on his shocked face, before he slammed the door on them without a word. 

Grieving for her lost son, Mrs. Weasley sobbed until they arrived back in the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place, where the dreadful duo were playing Exploding Snap. "Why the waterworks?" Fred asked insensitively, as his wailing mum plopped into the seat on his right, her knees giving way on her. 

"Oh, oh, oh." As she had buried her head in her hands, Molly's voice was muffled and oddly obscured. "It's your brother. He slammed the door on our faces, and he w-w-wouldn't even talk to us. How are we supposed to mend anything if he won't even attempt to fix it with us?" 

"Don't worry, Mum," Fred stated, possibly intending to console her for the first time in recorded history. "Percy's worth less than a mound of rat dung, because at least you can use rat dung as fertilizer." 

"And he smells worse than rat dung," added George, bobbing his head in confirmation. 

"Tell me about it," echoed his twin, "he smells like he employs a swamp for cologne." 

"If he uses any at all," from George. 

At this point, because the terror twins were prompting Mrs. Weasley to cry more forcefully than ever, Bill had enough. "Be quiet, both of you," he commanded firmly, "or I'll put a Silencing Charm on the pair of you, and I'll never take it off." 

"We're allowed to perform magic outside of school now," the dreadful duo protested in one voice, "so you can't make us do anything anymore, as if you ever could." 

"I've been out of school for years now," Bill reminded them. "I don't think you want to duel with me after all the ancient Egyptian hexes I've dealt with, so scram. Can't you see you're upsetting Mum?" 

"Percy's the one who has upset her," muttered George. 

"Do you want to add to her grief?" demanded Bill. 

Capitulating, George scooped up the deck of cards. "But we'll go, because we wish to work on something private in our bedroom, not because you're making us." With that last defiant comment, he and his clone departed. 

Once he was alone with his mum, Bill rested a soothing hand on her quivering shoulder. "It'll be fine in the end," he comforted her. "Eventually, You-Know-Who will be forced to reveal himself, and everyone, including Perce, will be forced to face the truth, and deal with it in his own way. Then, once he sees that we were right all along, Percy will come back home again. We'll be one big happy family once more." 

"I'm going to start preparing dinner." Tears still streaming in rivulets down her cheeks, Mrs. Weasley rose. "Thanks for everything, dear." 


	48. Chapter 48

Disclaimer: If Harry Potter was an invention of mine, I would never stop writing sequels and prequels to the seven published books

Disclaimer: If Harry Potter was an invention of mine, I would never stop writing sequels and prequels to the seven published books.

Reviews: Be awesome and drop me a line. If you wasted time reading my fic, waste a couple more seconds by reviewing it.

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who offered sympathy. I appreciate it. I'm feeling better now, so this chapter is more upbeat. I'm so happy to be home because I spent most of my break looking at colleges. If you take issue with any of my pronunciations, I apologize, but I never really think about how I say words in English, I just sort of say them, you know, and dictionaries are useless when it comes to their pronunciation keys, because I can't go to the bother of figuring out how I would type a backwards 'e' or whatever, and, I imagine, that to a non-native speaker our dictionary pronunciation guide is more confusing than helpful. However, if you really want me to change something, I'll do it, as long as it doesn't involve me typing weird figures and stuff. (By the way, my pronunciation is based on how an American from the New York area talks, so if you're British, and you really, really don't say something that way, just correct me politely. I'm still trying to figure out how 'centre' is pronounced like 'center' and 'harbour' like 'harbor,' so be patient.)

English Lessons

The following day, Bill met Fleur, whose hair was blowing like a proud flag in the summer breeze, on the marble steps that led up to Gringotts bank. "Where are we 'eaded?" she asked as he neared her.

"To the Rocking Joe cafe on the next corner," he replied as they descended the alabaster stairs.

"Eenglish food?" She wrinkled up her nose in protest as Bill steered her to the right down the cobblestone street.

"You and Louis definitely should meet up sometime so you can disparage English food together, but don't wrinkle your nose up at me. You'll never learn to order properly in English if you always dine at French restaurants."

"I zink zat zey ought to take my order in French, because cafe is, after all, a French word," grumbled Fleur mutinously as they approached the cafe.

"I think that you should use less words with 'th' in them," he riposted, holding the restaurant door open for her.

"Beel!"

"What in the world did you just call me?" he demanded, amused, following her into the cafe.

"I called you by your name, I zink," Fleur informed him, surprise etched on her stunning features. As she spoke, they settled themselves at a table for two by the window that looked onto the bustling avenues of London, where the sun emphasized the incandescence of her locks and her eyes more than ever. "You instructed to me to tell Graysavion zat Beel Weasley put ze extra curses on ze Keane vault as requested, so I assumed zat was your name."

"_Bill _Weasley is my name." In an attempt to conceal his grin, Bill pretended to immerse himself in the menu.

"Zat's what I said."

"No, you said 'Beel,' not 'Bill.'"

"Zey sound ze same to me." While she squinted at her menu, Fleur frowned, clearly struggling to translate it into her native tongue.

"A tone deaf pig can distinguish between sounds better." When his guest glowered at him, Bill lifted his hands in a parody of surrender. "Never mind. I'll just endeavor to teach you the proper way to say my name, shall I?"

"Well, as you're my Eenglish instructor, yes."

"English, not Eenglish, instructor. In this case, the 'e' has a harder, more pronounced sound, almost like an 'i,' although this is not always so. We English speakers enjoy playing around with vowel sounds."

"It's pronounced like 'Inglish,' zen?" Fleur hedged, as she decided what she wanted to order, and placed her menu on top of Bill's. For a moment, Bill fervently wished that their menus were their hands. He would have given all the gold and silver in Gringotts to feel her soft hands rest on his, though he would keep all the jewels in Gringotts, so he could present them to her, despite the fact that she required nothing to enhance her beauty.

"Yes." This time Bill permitted her to glimpse his smile.

"Well, zat's just rubbish zen." Scowling, Fleur slammed her palm against the tiny table in aggravation, an act which caused it to wobble for a few seconds before it achieved equilibrium once more.

"Sorry?" Bewildered, Bill arched his eyebrows at her.

"Your tongue is 'orrible, I tell you! It is completely unphonetic, and it doesn't abide by it's own silly rules 'alf ze time. If it is pronounced like an 'i,' why on earth don't zey just put an 'i' zere, instead? I mean, what was stopping zem from doing zat?' exploded Fleur.

Before her companion could respond to this, a waiter came over to them, his quill poised over his notepad. "Welcome to the Rocking Joe Cafe. May I take your order now?" he recited dully, obviously having memorized those lines.

"I'll have a large cup of tea with honey, and a cinnamon bun, please." As he placed his order, Bill proffered the menus to the server, who accepted them without so much as a nod of appreciation.

"I'll 'ave a small latte, and zat's it," from Fleur.

"I'll have it out as soon as possible," the waiter mumbled before shuffling away toward the kitchen.

As the waiter departed, Bill observed, "We've got to do something about your 'th' and 'h,' Fleur. Now, push the tip of your tongue against the bottom of your front teeth and say 'th.'"

Obediently, she brought her tongue to rest on the ridge of her two perfect, pearly front teeth. However, the only noise she emitted was a laugh. "Zis feels weird. 'Onsetly, it is ze most peculiar sensation."

"Just try it again for me."

"Oh, all right, if you inzizt so." With that, she rested her tongue against her teeth, and attempted to say 'th,' but the best she could produce was a whistle and a strong gust of air.

Giving up for the moment, Bill jested, "I guess I'll have to live with your awful 'th' for awhile. Never fear, though, for I hear English boys find a French accent alluring."

"Do you find it attractive?" Fleur's eyes, glittering with a million slightly different hues, pinned him.

Averting his gaze from hers, he was saved the necessity of replying by the return of the waiter, who shoved their beverages and Bill's cinnamon bun in front of the pair of them, and then scuffed away without a word. "That guy is definitely not getting a good tip," Bill remarked absently, twisting off a piece of the sticky, steaming cinnamon roll. Before he put the appetizing tidbit in his watering mouth, he added, "Oh, and I still haven't taught you how to say my name correctly yet."

"No, you 'aven't," confirmed Fleur, sipping on her latte.

"Repeat after me," he commanded once he had swallowed the bite of cinnamon bun, "B—i—l. Bill."

"B—i—l," echoed Fleur. "Bill."

"That's better." Bill offered a satisfied nod. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that his partner was looking at his pastry with a wistful expression in her face. Indicating it with a wave of his right hand, he asked, "Do you want some?"

"No, no zank you." Blushing prettily, Fleur shook her head in negation.

"Really, have some. Pretty girls need as much sugar as anyone." He pushed the saucer into the center of the table. "Let's each eat half, then we can head over to Florean Fortescue's homemade ice cream parlor for dessert."

"You 'ave quite a—'ow to say it in English?—"

"Sweet tooth?" suggested Bill, as he sipped his tea.

"Zat sounds right." Fleur bobbed her head affirmatively.

"Then, yes, I do, or, at least, that's what my mum tells me." As he made this blunt confession, Bill returned his attention to the cinnamon bun, yanked off a chunk roughly the size of Australia, and popped it into his mouth, grinning at the explosion of taste when he did so.

"I like sugar, too," admitted Fleur, helping herself to a hunk of cinnamon roll.

"I'll bet you miss all those fancy French desserts." Bill drained his cup of tea. "I know I miss Louis' napoleons, truffles, and eclairs as much as I miss the ancient Egyptian tombs I robbed for the bank."

The cinnamon bun had been reduced to crumbs by now, thanks to the diligence of the pair of them, so Bill gestured for the waiter to carry over the check. After the waiter slapped down the bill, and slouched away again, a debate over who paid ensued. When Bill reached for his wallet, he was astonished to discover that his guest was rummaging about in her purse.

"Don't bother," he educated her, "I'm paying."

"Nonsense." She shook her head breezily. "I'll pay for my coffee, and 'alf ze cinnamon roll. Ze rest is on you. Zat's fair."

"But you're my guest." Bill resolutely threw down all the cash necessary to fund their meal, and, to his relief, Fleur made no move to halt him, although she had not been defeated entirely.

"Very well," she conceded, "but I will invite you to ze ice cream parlor, Bill, and I shall pay for ze both of us."

"But," Bill protested as they rose.

"But I'm a female?" Fleur's eyes contracted menacingly. "Zat doesn't mean zat I'm incapable of earning money to treat myself and others to ice cream, does it?"

"Well, no, of course not, but—" Bill attempted for a second time, as they exited the cafe. Realizing abruptly how outdated he must sound, he shook his head dolefully. "Never mind, Fleur. I don't even comprehend why I'm arguing with you, since you'll save me money if you pay, and if you don't want to enjoy one of the perks of your gender, that's your affair. However, if you do treat me to ice cream, you must promise me one thing."

"What's zat?"

"That you won't ever tell my mum that you did so, because she'll murder me."

"I promise, but you know zat your mother wouldn't really kill you."

"You've never met my mum," countered Bill. "She'd slaughter me, and then feel remorse about it later."

"Zat's not true, and you know it. I'm sure zat your mother is a very nice woman," stated Fleur firmly, as they arrived outside Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, and she swung open the door of the establishment. Changing the topic, she remarked, "So you 'ave spent some time in Egypt, zen?"

"Yes," he responded, scanning the ice cream selections. "I was a Curse-Breaker there ever since I left Hogwarts. I've only just returned to England actually."

"Let's split one of zose two scoop sundaes. I want a scoop of ze French vanilla. What flavor do you want?"

"Chocolate cookie dough," he answered mischievously. "It has that raw cookie dough in it that you aren't supposed to eat."

"But it doesn't have any raw eggs in it," Fleur reminded him. To Florean, who was approaching them, she ordered, "We shall 'ave ze two scoop sundae with chocolate cookie dough, and French vanilla." When Florean walked away to fill her order, she focused on Bill. "Go get us two spoons, and some napkins from over zere." She pointed to a table with plastic spoons and a paper napkin dispenser in the corner beside a garbage bin. "Zen sit down. I'll get ze ice cream and pay for it in the meantime."

Shaking his head, Bill did as he was bid, and, within two or three minutes, Fleur had slipped into the chair across from him, and placed the sundae between them both. Once she was settled, bill offered her a spoon, and, together, they dug into the mountain of ice cream facing them.

"You enjoyed Egypt?" Fleur inquired between bites.

"It's an incredible experience to roam around the blazing Egyptian desert in search of long lost treasure, to break the spells of the revered priests of one of the most advanced magical civilizations ever to inhabit this planet, and to just witness firsthand what skilled architects, engineers, builders, and artisans the ancient Egyptians were."

"Obviously, you loved Egypt, so why in ze world did you leave zere?"

Pretending to be riveted in catching a difficult cashew to accompany his loaded spoon of chocolate cookie dough ice cream, because he was about to employ a half-truth with a woman he wanted to get to know loads better, Bill shrugged nonchalantly. "I wanted to spend some time with my family."

"You must love zem very much if you left Egypt, a place you're so passionate about, to be with zem. Tell me about zem. I would like to 'ear about your family."

Where to begin? Bill wondered even as he started, "Well, there's Mum, who's an excellent chef, even Louis admits it. She's a kind woman who calls everyone 'dear,' even when they grow taller than her, although she's quite capable of scolding people with enough volume to be heard in Africa all day long. And she keeps campaigning for the cutting of my hair and the removal of my earring."

"I like ze 'air and ze earring." As she announced this, Fleur licked some hot fudge off her spoon before it hardened there.

"That's what my little sister, Ginny, says," chuckled Bill. "She's always informing Mum that she's so outdated, and guys can wear earrings and have long hair now, though perhaps she's biased because she herself picked out the earring when the family vacationed in Egypt during the summer between her first and second year at Hogwarts. You'll find my sister can be blunt and sharp-tongued, but she's fiercely loyal and sassy, too. She's also an athlete, though none of her other brothers know. Thank heavens she isn't dating anyone yet, and just has a cute little girl crush on Harry Potter, who, fortunately, has no romantic interest in her. Then, there's Ron. You've met him, and he's every bit as clumsy, tactless, and stupid as you imagine, although he means well, and is devoted to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. In fairness, he's a wicked chess player, as well, however incapable of strategy he is the rest of the time." Recognizing that he had been chattering far to long, he eyed her sheepishly. "Sorry. I'll stuff a sock in it. I just have such a gigantic family that it takes a while to do them all justice."

"But you 'aven't." Fleur shook her magnificent head about. "I don't remembering 'earing about your father, for instance."

"Okay, I'll continue to torture you, but remember that this time you brought it upon yourself. Dad's the opposite of Mum in almost every way. He's usually calm, and level-headed, so it takes a lot to rile him, but once you've angered him, you'll regret it. Anyway, he's obsessed with Muggles and everything pertaining to them, but it's a loveable quirk in the end, I suppose. Then, there's my favorite brother, Charlie. He's great at imitating Mum's voice, an expert on all things Quidditch, and he was such a brilliant Seeker that he could have played for England if he wanted to."

"'E didn't want to?" Fleur's forehead knit in puzzlement.

"Nah, he chose to work with dragons in Romania, which is where he is now, instead. Charlie loves all magical creatures, but dragons, for some bizarre reason understood solely by Charlie, are his favorite. Of course, he was passionate about Seeking, too, but he didn't love it enough to put up with being treated like a brainless slab of muscle all day long."

"Oh, I can understand zat," muttered Fleur, who was probably accustomed to being treated like a brainless beauty ninety five percent of the time.

"Yeah. Anyway, then there are the terror twins, Fred and George, who are the biggest pranksters the world has ever seen, and who want to do nothing more than open a joke shop, which is why they thought it acceptable to only attain three O.W.L.'s apiece."

"O.W.L's?" Fleur repeated, confused.

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," clarified Bill. "They are dreadful exams that every fifth year in England has to take. The highest grade you can get is twelve, and the lowest is zero. I received twelve, Charlie got nine, and Percy also attained twelve."

"Percy is another one of your brothers, zen?"

"Yes," Bill scowled as he thought of his sibling, "but nobody in my family likes to mention him anymore, because he believes every lie the Ministry is spewing about Harry Potter via the newspaper, which resulted in him engaging in a monumental shouting match with Dad, and disowning us, so he could live alone in a flat. Worst of all, he slammed the door on the face of Mum and I when we went to talk him around. The very least he could have done was be decent to her. I don't ask for the same courtesy."

"If 'e got ze highest grade, 'e must be intelligent, like you," Fleur reassured him. "'e'll come around in ze end, and 'e'll recognize zat 'Arry was right . To translate a saying of my Maman's, 'Every dark has it's day.'"

"You're right, of course. There's a light at the end of every tunnel, although I hope in this case it isn't the light of an approaching train, and that when the politicians see the light themselves they don't choose to waste some more taxpayer money and order more tunnel." As he established as much, Bill checked his watch. Feeling more gloomy than ever, he added, "Our lunch hour is almost over, you know. We'd better get back to work before the goblins determine that they can manage without us."

Leaning forward, Fleur quickly kissed each of Bill's cheeks, something that caused heat to flood him as his stomach churned, implying that it was about to vomit up the ice cream and cinnamon bun he had recently devoured. "I enjoyed ze lesson. I shall wait for you on ze steps tomorrow."

"No power on earth could prevent me from meeting you." Bill rose, just as she did so, as well. As they made their way back to Gringotts, he reflected that he had almost forgotten that there was a secret war to be waged against You-Know-Who and his league of Death Eaters, and for almost an hour he had delighted in a serene bliss with Fleur. Obviously, love was as potent and as magical as Dumbledore continually announced to anyone within earshot whenever he felt like he had gone too long without reminding everyone of this fact.


	49. Chapter 49

Trials

Trials

Disclaimer: All things that pertain in any manner whatsoever to Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling and anyone she has seen fit to sell it to. Therefore, you may worship her, not me.

Reviews: As always are welcomed and encouraged.

Author's Note: I think the timing on everything is accurate, but if it's not, please don't kill me, since I was writing this at the end of my Honors Chemistry class, and didn't have my fifth Harry Potter book with me. (I refuse to believe there is any correlation between my 88 average in Honors Chemistry, and my inability to pay attention for more than twenty consecutive minutes in that class. It's not my fault my teacher can't teach, because, after all, I stay awake in my other classes.) Still, if it's not good, just tell me, and I'll tinker about and see how I can mend it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter, and that if you do, you'll show it by reviewing:

When Bill Weasley entered number twelve Grimmauld Place after a day's work at Gringotts, during which he had enjoyed a delicious sandwich lunch with Fleur that she had insisted on paying for, although she had permitted him to purchase elcairs for them at a pastry shop afterward, shouts assaulted him, popping the bubble of vague euphoria that had enveloped him ever since Fleur's English lesson. Covering his ears as he dashed toward the kitchen, because by now he had learned that attempting to silence the portraits hanging in the main hallway revealed the same folly as endeavoring to stop the sun from setting, it was a few seconds before he registered that he was traveling in the direction from whence the noise originated, rather than fleeing from it. As he descended the stairs into the basement kitchen, he discerned his mum's ranting at full and considerable volume.

"Oh, I promise you, I'm going to kill that Mundungus Fletcher if it's the very last thing either of us do!" Mrs. Weasley seethed as her eldest son tentatively nudged the door ajar, slipped inside, and tip-toed into a seat at the table across from Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. "He's nothing more than a dirty, irresponsible scalawag, and a sneak thief to boot. How Dumbledore could possibly trust him is beyond my understanding—"

"In all fairness, Molly, Dung has furnished beneficial information for the Order in the past," Remus reasoned quietly. "It is an unfortunate reality that the Order requires some spies in the criminal underground."

"I know that," fumed Mrs. Weasley, eyes blazing like dying embers, "but that doesn't mean that Mundungus can be relied upon to perform important tasks, such as looking out for Harry. After all, people in his _profession _do not have the same moral codes that bind the rest of us." With that last clipped word, she pivoted on her heel with a martial precision, and stalked from the room.

Frowning in bemusement, Bill arched his eyebrows at his remaining companions. "I'm missing a piece of the jigsaw. What's Mundungus Fletcher done exactly?"

"Mundungus had guard duty this evening," began Remus.

"Let me guess, he neglected to show up, because it slipped his tobacco clouded mind, and something happened to Harry, thanks to his negligence," interrupted Bill, mentally accusing Dung of being seven types of idiot.

"Close enough," Remus informed him. "What actually occurred, according to Arabella Figg, the Squib who lives near Harry, was that Mundungus remembered that he had duty tonight, but he Apparated instantly when he heard about a cargo of stolen goods that had toppled off a broomstick. During his absence, Harry was assailed by a swarm of dementors—"

"What?" demanded Bill, his voice like a new razor, lurching out of his chair, as if he could rescue the boy.

"You heard me—he was attacked by dementors in Little Whinging. Don't worry, though. He's fine, since he's known how to perform the Patronous Charm ever since I taught him how in his third year."

"Are you telling me he can use a corporeal Patronous?" Bill felt as though the surprises were endless, stretching into infinity.

"Yes." Remus bobbed his head in confirmation. "Still, it's not as though we've got no problem merely because Harry's kept his soul intact. Rather, we have yet to account for how the dementors got into his neighborhood when they're assigned to guard duty in Azkaban, which we all are aware is located in the middle of the sea—"

"Some of the more fortunate among us can vouch to that fact from personal experience." Sirius' tone was more acidic than vinegar.

"Also, I would be interested in hearing an explanation as to how they knew Harry's whereabouts," concluded Remus, ignoring his buddy's interjection.

"Is it possible that You-Know-Who has induced the dementors to side with him in his bid for power again?" Bill mused aloud, his forehead knotting. He prayed that this was not the case. Intellectually, he recognized that it was inevitable, and, therefore, would happen eventually, but he still hoped that day would not be today, or anytime in the near future.

"Doubtful," objected Remus, and Bill had never been more relieved to have one of his theories shot down. "After all, the Ministry thus far has been charitable enough to ignore You-Know-Who's return, so I don't think that it would be logical for him to draw the Ministry's attention by causing dementors to defect to him at the moment. If he does that, the Ministry will realize that they are losing control of their dementors, and will begin to mobilize against him, and he doesn't need to wake a sleeping dragon at the moment if he gains nothing in doing so."

"So then it must be a high-up Ministry insider's job, as they're the only ones who have control over the Azkaban guards at the moment. Then the only question that remains is whether the high-ranking official did it on Fudge's orders, or of his or her own free will," Bill murmured.

"Either way, Fudge is more than willing to take advantage of the opportunity to put Harry on trial for a breach of the Statute for Underage Wizardry, and for performing magic in front of his Muggle cousin," Remus educated him grimly.

"Blast it, that man should seriously consider playing fifty-two card pickup in a pen full of enraged dragons, or, failing that, getting run over by the Knight Bus," grumbled Bill. "If he really gave a hoot about the law and the justice it is intended to embody, he would have read that even underage witches and wizards are entitled to utilize magic in life-threatening circumstances, and wizards and witches of all ages are allowed to employ their powers in front of Muggles, provided it entails saving the life, or soul in this case, of anyone present. Well, assuming that he can read, of course."

"Dumbledore will certainly use those types of arguments when he advocates for Harry at his trial," the other agreed. "Speaking of Harry's trial, Fudge was devastated when Dumbledore's defense of him prevented Harry from being immediately expelled a little while ago. Not that the danger of being kicked out of school is over for Harry, mind you, because he could still be expelled after his hearing."

"Surely not!" Bill was aghast at the very notion. "They've got to give him a fair hearing, and, if they do, they've got to see that he behaved appropriately in the context of the situation. Anyone who isn't as blind as a bat could perceive that."

"A fair trail, that's hysterical, a bloody contradiction in terms," Sirius spoke up, his voice as dark as his surname. "The Ministry never offers anybody who could compromise their regime to have a just trial. Actually, Harry ought to be grateful that Dumbledore defended his rights, and prevented him from being carted off to Azkaban, like I was. Still, he'll probably be chucked out of Hogwarts, anyway, despite Dumbledore's best efforts. On the plus side of the ledger, he'll be able to live with me, and we'll be two rogues living together happily ever after."

"We'll see what happens," Remus cut in, "but I personally think that everything depends on who judges Harry. Remember, Sirius, that there are some decent high-ranking Ministry employees, like Madam Bones."

"Right, we'll see what happens." Temperamentally, Sirius shoved his chair away from the table, and rose brusquely. "However, I'm personally betting my weight in gold, which currently is a lot if the newspapers have it right, that the Ministry will convict my godson. Any takers?"

"I don't have the money." As he established as much, Remus jabbed a finger at his tattering robes to illustrate his point beyond all rational dispute.

"Nobody at Gringotts will gamble after that Bagman fiasco with the leprechaun gold at the World Cup," Bill grinned. "If you ask me, there's another display of immorality in political scumbags."

"I didn't think anyone would take me up on my proposal, but, hey, it was worth a shot," Sirius remarked. "At least Harry will be around here soon, because Dumbledore is already planning when a group of Order members who have his permission to leave headquarters, go to the bathroom, and breathe all by themselves, can pick him up at Privet Drive."

At that moment, the door to the kitchen swung open, and Tonks burst in. Apparently, she had heard at least some of their conversation, for she contributed exuberantly as she sat down beside Bill, "Wotcher, everyone. Yeah, I've already sent a letter by Muggle snail mail informing the dreadful Dursleys that they've been short-listed for the All-England-Best-Kept-Suburban-Lawn-Competition, and giving the date of the prize-giving as seven o'clock on this coming Friday evening."

"Good one," Bill complimented her, holding out his hand to exchange a high-five with her. They smacked their palms together briefly. "From what I've observed of them, they're the type of fools that would fall for it."

"Tell me about it," agreed Tonks, waving her arm about to expound upon this, and knocking over an unlit candle, which she righted sheepishly, in her excitement, "it's a pity that we won't be able to stick around to see their faces when they find out that there's no All-England-Best-Kept-Suburban-Lawn-Competition."

"I reckon it would be cool to see just how many shades Harry's Uncle Vernon's face can take on in the course of a minute," Bill laughed.

"Probably all the colors on the color wheel, and then one or two more for good measure." Tonks nodded her head in mock seriousness.

That Friday, Harry arrived, and it was surprising how much things at Grimmauld Place did not change in the slightest. Just as she was doing with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, the dreadful duo, and Sirius, who had to take a lot of flack from Snape at Order meetings, Mrs. Weasley put Harry to work purging the house of the filth that had conquered the house in the years since Mrs. Black had died, because the house elf, Kreacher, had gone round the twist when his mistress had perished, and no longer knew how to clean anything. However, Bill suspected that Harry might just be grateful for such an arrangement, because it allowed him to forget that he was going to be tried for violating the Statute for Underage Wizardry, and for performing magic before a Muggle on August the 6th. Indeed, when Bill's mum reminded Harry to make sure that his robes were in good order on the night before the hearing, the boy had turned ashen, which had contrasted awfully with his jet-black locks, and his emerald eyes had widened until they were the size of Granny Smith apples.

On the morning of the trial, Bill awoke at his usual hour, and hurried down to the kitchen, where his mother was knitting. As he placed two slices of bread in the toaster, he asked her, "Did Harry and Dad go already, Mum?"

"Yes, dear." Mrs. Weasley nodded, her needles flashing fretfully, reflecting the anxiety gleaming in her eyes. "Your father thought it best that they leave earlier, as he said at supper yesterday, because he wants Harry to arrive in an entirely non-magical way, given—given—"

"Given what the poor, innocent boy is being accused of, I see, because that will make a better impression," supplied Bill, removing his breakfast from the toaster oven, and dumping almost a whole stick of butter on each piece of bread. "Although, if they're determined to convict him, it won't make any difference whatsoever."

This fact must have discomfited her, for Mrs. Weasley passed over it quickly. "And your dad isn't exactly familiar with the Muggle subway system, so he thought it best to leave a lot of extra time. After all, Harry wouldn't want to be tardy for his hearing, would he?"

"No, then they'd probably send him to Azkaban for contempt of the court, or some such rot," he commented sagely through a mouthful of toast.

"Don't talk with your mouth full of food. It's revolting. How many times must I tell you and your brothers that?" scolded Mrs. Weasley, throwing her knitting onto the floor in exasperation with her eldest child. Before he could apologize or soothe her, she continued in the same voice, "While you're at it, don't even talk about that poor dear getting thrown into Azkaban! I won't have you jinxing his luck or tempting the fates. Although I swear that if they dare to lock him in that terrible place, I shall travel there and rescue him myself, and it will take more of a man than Cornelius Oswald Fudge to stop me!"

"I know, Mum." All earnestness, Bill bent forward to kiss her on the cheek. "You're an amazingly strong witch, just like Ginny, and you'd be just the person to drag Harry out of Azkaban if he needed somebody to do so, and it would be fitting to, considering how many times he's saved members of our family. I must admit, though, that I don't think you should duel with Fudge, because there would be no glory in it. After all, I'm not sure he can even perform a basic Summoning Charm."

Shaking her head, Mrs. Weasley scooped up her knitting project. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Bill."

"I'm off to work." Bill ignored her last remark, as he charged upstairs, and out the door so that he could Apparate to Gringotts.

Most likely due to Harry's trial, Bill did not conduct himself as he typically did at work, although the only being who seemed to detect this was Fleur Delacour, who was an astoundingly perceptive lady, he decided. The fact that she did notice his unusual manner was clear when she waved her smooth hand in front of his nose during their normal lunch out. "Bill, do you mind returning from Jupiter, and joining me 'ere at ze table?"

"I'm right here, Fleur, and what's more, I'm paying attention to you," Bill promised her, still a little preoccupied.

"No, you're not, monsieur." Briskly, Fleur shook her head in negation. "You may be 'ere physically, but mentally you're a million miles away from 'ere."

This time he did not bother to deny the acute accusation. "How could you tell?"

"Because you're not yourself, and zat is obvious. You 'ave agreed with everything I 'ave said throughout ze entire meal, and you 'ave not corrected any of my pronunciations so far." As she made this charge, she gesticulated angrily with her utensil. "'Onestly, today you are almost as bad as zat Roger Davies who I went to ze Yule Ball with last year, but, at least your fork is making it into your mouth."

"I'm sorry. Someone else important to me is occupying my mind, I'm afraid," confessed Bill, flushing to the roots of his vivid hair, and wishing he had learned to control his blush ages ago.

"Another female?" Fleur's eyes narrowed a tad.

"No, I haven't been back in England long enough to get a girl."

"Oh, zat's a pity." For a split second, Bill imagined that he saw regret flash across her face, but in the next instant her features were impassive, and he was convinced it was an optical illusion, or a malicious trick of the light that had produced this phenomenon. "So who is consuming your attention, zen?"

"Harry Potter," Bill replied, fiddling with his spaghetti, as he pretended to be fixated with wrapping a wad of strands about his fork. "He's on trial for violating the Statute for Underage Sorcery, and for employing magic in front of his obese Muggle cousin to save both of them from having their souls forcibly removed from them by a horde of dementors that ought to have been in Azkaban."

"What on earth is wrong with your Ministry? Zat's what I'd like to know." Irascibly, Fleur stabbed her ravioli, venting her wrath with the British Ministry of Magic on her meal. "Zey are a bunch of cringing cowards, who chose to pick on a noble little boy who is 'alf zere size, instead of fighting an actual enemy zat will kill many innocent people, and who ze little boy is doing a better job of combating. Zey should be ashamed of themselves!"

"They don't have enough honor to be ashamed of themselves," answered Bill, meaning every word. "You'll find that a conscience is a prerequisite for feelings of remorse and shame, I'm afraid."

"So ze people zat are the best suffer ze most once again. What else is new?" Fleur shook her head, a movement that no longer prompted Bill's knees to be transformed to jelly, since he had become fairly accustomed to it as he was spending every lunch hour in her presence. In fact, his lunch hour was rapidly becoming the brightest part of his days, not that that was saying much, given that his existence was pretty depressing at the moment. "Is 'Arry staying at your 'ouse, zen?"

"Yes." Bill determined that telling the truth about Harry's whereabouts would be violating the Order's tenet of secrecy, and was too complicated a story anyhow. "Yes, Harry's living with the Weasley clan."

"Zat's good. Zat way 'e will be surrounded by people who know what kind of person 'e is, and 'e will be near 'is friends, and your maman will be able to care for 'im."

"Yep, I'm just worried that they'll convict Harry," Bill confided.

"It doesn't matter whether or not zey try to make 'Arry their sacrificial lamb, because 'e won't let them do so. 'E will go on defying zem until ze bitter end," stated his companion vehemently. "Justice is all on 'is side, no matter what ze court of law may say. If zey convict 'im, it is more a comment on zem zan on 'im."

"I'm aware of that," Bill explained patiently, "but if they expel him he won't be able to learn what he needs to fight You-Know-Who now that he's back."

"If 'e is expelled, 'e will find a way to 'andle it, as 'e as done with everything else in ze past," Fleur reassured him. Glancing at her watch, she added, "But don't concern yourself with zat now, because you should be fretting about getting back to work on time."

They each put down half the money necessary to pay the check, as Bill teased, "And you should concern yourself with learning how to pronounce the 'th' and 'h' sounds, which are a necessary component in the English language."

"Just as you should be worried about teaching me 'ow to do so, since you are my English teacher," riposted Fleur, as they departed the restaurant.

Upon his return home after work, Bill was delighted to discover that Harry had been cleared off all charges, thanks to Dumbledore's defense of him, and was more than happy to enjoy his mum's celebratory meal of meatloaf. However, life did not settle down for long before the Ministry made another attack on the Order.

It was a Saturday morning, and Bill had been sitting in the kitchen with his father when he heard about the latest Ministry attempt to hinder Dumbledore. Oddly enough, it had been McGonagall who had delivered the news with flaring nostrils and florid cheeks to emphasize her point. On the final Saturday in August, she burst into the kitchen with such gusto that at first Bill thought that the twin tornadoes had swept in, and he was surprised when he whirled about to find her towering, quivering figure in the threshold.

"Arthur," she proclaimed in the tone she had utilized when she berated her whole House for celebrating too long after winning the Quidditch Cup in Bill's fourth year, "you can tell Molly that the school owls have been sent out with the booklist, so they should be arriving sometime today, which means she can cease nagging me about it."

"I take it that you've found a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher finally, Minerva?" asked Mr. Weasley, somehow not angered by the shouting.

"Oh, no, I haven't found a teacher." McGonagall's pale nostrils flared in and out like a kite in the breeze as she sat down in a chair across from the two Weasleys.

"Then Dumbledore has?" Mr. Weasley tried again.

"I wish that were indeed the case." McGonagall's lips thinned, which always hinted at imminent danger.

"I don't understand you," frowned Mr. Weasley. "Are you saying that there won't be a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year?"

"Cool," his son observed. "Then Ron will have a decent excuse to fail that O.W.L., at any rate."

"It's not a laughing matter," his dad educated him shortly, while McGonagall glowered at him, as though she had just caught him playing hangman during one of her lessons. "I'd like to remind you that, especially in this climate, Defense Against the Dark Arts is a very important subject to receive adequate instruction in, and, besides, failing O.W.L.'s is a very serious matter in and of itself."

"Of course it is, Dad," smiled Bill, "but you can't change most of the horrible things that are going on, and so you're options basically entail ranting at the top of your voice, crying, laughing, or going round the bend entirely. I plan on joking my way through, myself."

"I suppose there's truth in what both of you are saying," McGonagall interjected sharply with her characteristic lack of patience with other humans, "since we've got a teacher, yes, but she by no means provides adequate instruction, as Arthur claims, although Bill's right that we cannot do anything about her—at the moment."

"How do you have a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor if Dumbledore didn't hire her?" inquired the Weasleys simultaneously.

"She has been foisted upon us by that abysmal, cowardly fool Fudge," exploded Hogwarts' Transfiguration Professor, her eyes cackling. "In a sudden fit of concern for the state of education here in Britain, he passed a new Educational Decree yesterday, which permits him to hire a professor of his choosing in the event that Dumbledore was unable to find one."

"Which lackey has he sent to Hogwarts to spy for him, then?" Mr. Weasley offered a resigned sigh.

"Dolores Jane Umbridge." McGonagall spat out the words, as if she envisioned that she would contract some dreadful ailment from them.

For some reason, the name jogged something in Bill's memory, and he scowled for a moment, struggling to understand why it sounded familiar, before he muttered, "She was my Apparition instructor. A frog-like woman, who wore a disgusting pink cardigan, and who had a horrible mock little girl laugh coupled with an annoying tendency to cough prior to every other sentence she uttered. I didn't think she was too bright myself, as I'm not sure she could Apparate, since she never did so herself, and I don't reckon she can Conjure things, since she made you Conjure the hoops for classes." He pointed at McGonagall as he finished to demonstrate who he was referring to.

"You're memory of her is correct in its essentials." McGonagall sounded as if she were rating a response a pupil had provided in class. "However, I would describe her more along the lines of a toad than a frog, though I agree that she certainly can't Apparate or Conjure, and I should know, seeing as I had her for a student."

Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. "Now, strictly speaking, professors are not permitted to discuss the grades students attain, as they are confidential, but, I don't want anyone to come away with the idea that Dolores deserves her post, and so I will inform you that she only got two O.W.L.'s, in History of Magic and Divination, and those were Acceptable scores."

"Two O.W.L.'s." Bill whistled. "Wow, that's worse than what Fred and George received, not even combining their scores. At least they got three apiece."

"Yes, and they did not even try." As she made this assertion, McGonagall's lips quirked upward slightly. "I assure you that Dolores Umbridge did try. Well, I'll all say is that Umbridge got where she is today by means other than a quick mind. Suffice it to say, she's not Senior _Under_secretary to the Minister for no reason, but I'll leave the rest to your imaginations."

"I wish you wouldn't." Bill buried his head in the palms of his hand. "I'll be vomiting for a week now that you've planted that idea in my mind."

"That seems fair, as once she arrives at school, I will be throwing up any food I am able to consume with her at the staff table with me every day until she leaves." With that final unpleasant sentiment, she got to her feet. "The only condolence is that, since she is not hired by Dumbledore, I do not have to refrain from speaking ill of her, and so I can say that I hope the students give her a run for her money."

"I suppose we all have breaking points," Mr. Weasley reasoned as McGonagall exited, slamming the door to the kitchen in her wake. "Hers is when an outsider whose an enemy of Dumbledore invades Hogwarts. She's very devoted to Dumbledore, and to the school."

"Well, she's a good teacher, even if she is a frigid, cantankerous witch, and she's a more than competent Deputy Headmistress and Head of House." Bill shrugged fairly, because he was starting to realize that she had been one of the better professors he had encountered at Hogwarts. "I bet she's the closest thing Dumbledore has to an equal."

"I wasn't insulting her, Bill," Mr. Weasley informed him quickly. "She's a clever and powerful witch, and she's not as hard a person as she likes to pretends to be."

"I wouldn't want her for my enemy, though. She scares me, just as she always has, and always will, although that probably won't stop me from playing hangman with Remus during meetings if I can induce him to do so."

"One day you will grow-up, and preferably that will occur before you perish of old age."

As he went on, Bill ignored this comment, "Anyway, I could almost feel sympathy for Umbridge, because the last and greatest of the Three Furies of lore has been cast upon her."

"Umbridge deserves it," Mr. Weasley concluded tightly, and then switched the subject to something more peaceful.


	50. Chapter 50

Snakes and Study Groups

Snakes and Study Groups

Disclaimer: Unless you have got an IQ that's about room temperature, you'll know that J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter series, and, unfortunately, I'm not her.

Reviews: If you a second or two, don't hesitate to submit a review, because I love feedback, and I promise I'll reply to you as soon as I can. As always, thanks to my reviewers. You're all magnificent people who keep me scribbling away and hatching plot eggs.

Author's Note: In case you don't know, "Ex animo" is, in the context of Bill's letter, "From the heart." I just thought I'd slip in some A.P. Latin preparation. Vale. (Farewell, in Latin.)

Before Bill knew it, his brothers, sister, Hermione, and Harry were being sent back to Hogwarts, and Grimmauld Place felt quieter than usual, although Sirius' mum was as vocal as ever about the Mudbloods and blood traitors that now resided like mold in her house. At the back of his mind, he wondered how his siblings, Harry, and Hermione were faring against Fudge's most loyal― supporter. Fortunately, he was not trapped in the agony of suspense for long, because on the first Saturday of the school year, Bill received a note from Ginny:

**Dear Bill, **

**I hope you're having a better time of it than I am. School this year has been a real dive. All the **_competent_** (read: not Binns or Umbridge) are giving us a ton of homework in preparation for our O.W.L's, although everyone who hasn't banged their head against a boulder seven times in a row, knows that we don't have to take them until our fifth year. Furthermore, Hagrid is not here. It's not as though I visited him half as frequently as Ron, Harry, and Hermione did, and his lessons in Care of Magical Creatures, which often left me with singed robes and burned body parts, were far from enjoyable or educational, but I still miss him, since he was a feature here, and I sincerely wish that he would return from his diplomatic mission to the giants soon. **

**Anyway, the worse part of the term so far has been Defense Against the Dark Arts classes. Largely, this is due to our horrid, toad-like teacher with her nausea-inducing pink cardigan that I'll bet my favorite poster of the Weird Sisters that she never washes, and stupid coughing and little girl giggling fits that make you want to leap out of your desk and strangle her. Her idea of a lesson is instructing us to drag out our textbooks, and read a chapter until the bell rings. Needless to say, this is completely pointless, because I could read up on defensive magic in the library during my free time if I wanted to. The reason we have teachers is to provide us with information that cannot be found in books, or to explain the complicated stuff that can be. **

**Worse still, I've already gotten on her bad side, because I had the audacity to inquire in our first class what benefit theory would do us in the real world when we're facing actual Dark witches and wizards. She just eyed me as if I were a particularly succulent fly that she was tempted to gobble up, and informed me in her poisonously sweet voice that the whole reason anyone studied Defense Against the Dark Arts was to receive excellent grades in examinations, so they can get well-paying jobs after graduation, and that there were no Dark magicians on the planet who would wish to do any of us any harm. Hah! Maybe she's never heard of You-Know-Who or Death Eaters, which wouldn't be too shocking, as she doesn't seem to have heard of most things. (It's also a definite possibility that she's a Death Eater herself.) I confess that I'm at a loss to comprehend why Professor Dumbledore forced her upon us. I mean, I'm aware that Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers don't grow on trees, but he could have gotten someone from the Order to fill the post. Personally, I'd much rather if you, Charlie, or Tonks had the job. At least you guys are cool, and know what you're talking about from experience. **

**Anyway, to get back to our dear Umbridge, whom we can't imagine life without, I suppose I ought to be somewhat grateful that she doesn't hate me as much as she loathes Harry, who had already been given a week's worth of detention just because he had the guts to tell her and the rest of the class that You-Know-Who has come back to power, challenging her cute little Ministry-concocted fairy tale version of reality. Poor, noble Harry. Umbridge is an evil, misguided bat. **

**On the plus side, Fred and George's Nosebleed Nougats and Puking Pastilles are coming along well, according to the aforementioned demons, so soon I'll be able to purchase them and pretend to be sick in Umbridge's classes. I'm willing to wager that she'll never notice anything suspicious, because she's just that slow on the uptake. (Case and point: Her attitude toward You-Know-Who's return.) **

**Love from your tigress,**

**Ginny**

Shaking his head, Bill rummaged about in a top desk drawer until he unearthed a quill, and then replied:

_**Dear Ginny,**_

_**I'm sorry to hear that your start of term has been so lousy. Don't let yourself fall too deeply into depression, though. Hagrid will complete his mission with the giants eventually, and he'll arrive back at Hogwarts then. In the meantime, fretting about him does nobody any service, lioness. As for Umbridge, she's a nightmare, yes, but like all nightmares, she will pass away when morning breaks (or afternoon, depending upon your sleeping patterns). Remember, the Defense Against the Dark Arts post is cursed, no matter what Dumbledore claims au contraire, and she'll be gone by next year. By the way, I think Umbridge was forced upon Dumbledore by a new Ministry Educational Decree, according to McGonagall, who is usually good about what's happening at Hogwarts. **_

_**Speaking of the hex on the job, that's an excellent reason in and of itself for Dumbledore not to give the post to Charlie, Tonks, or I. After all, he doesn't want one of his few supporters to die solely because of the bad luck that engulfs the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Besides, Charlie is needed where he is in order to make contacts with foreign wizards, and Tonks is useful to the Order where she is, because then she can spy on the Ministry, and accomplish other stuff in the Auror office. As for me, I like to tell myself on bad hair days that I provide Dumbledore and the Order with valuable connections to Gringotts and the goblins. In short, we cannot be spared to teach you lot Defense Against the Dark Arts, although that's probably a good thing, because I, for one, would make a terrible professor. **_

_**To get back to the topic of Umbridge, it's a pity that she won't actually instruct you and the others in practical defense measures, though I do feel compelled to remind you, little sister, that theory is crucial to learn as a foundation on which complex spellwork can be taught and mastered. Basically, theory permits one to perform practical aspects of magic. However, you and your peers can try to work on the practical aspects by yourselves. If you look at the school rules, study groups are allowed, unless Umbridge has prohibited them, so you can form one for practicing defense work together, although I would suggest that you be as circumspect and covert as possible in such an endeavor, since I doubt that Umbridge would approve if she discovered such a club. **_

_**As for Umbridge being an annoying idiot, I can't agree more. When I was a sixth-year, she was my Apparation instructor, who had no clue how to Apparate or Conjure hoops in another display of Ministry efficiency and rationality, and she had the same vexing mannerisms, and unfashionable attire. It's such a relief to hear that some things will never change. To make you feel better, I'll pass on some fascinating information that I learned about her from none other than Minerva McGonagall, and we are all aware that she's always right. Anyhow, McGonagall explained to Dad and I that she taught Umbridge at Hogwarts, and Umbridge was such a troll then that she only received two Acceptable O.W.L's in Divination and History of Magic, and failed the rest. Given that, McGonagall went on to suggest that Fudge hired her for her high position for, um, sexual favors. **_

_**God, I can't believe I mentioned something like that to my younger sister, whom I'm supposed to shield. Oops. Never mind, just promise me that you won't be like Umbridge when you grow-up, even though you're loads prettier than she is, and reassure me that you have no idea what "sexual favors" entail, and that it's your greatest goal in life to join a nunnery. Also, do me an enormous favor and never tell Mum or Dad that I ever wrote a sentence like that to you unless you want to watch your eldest brother get crucified before your eyes. **_

_**Harry has my sympathies about the whole detention thing, but I hope that he won't beat a dead horse anymore in the future, because he's never going to change her mind, assuming, of course that there is a mind in her skull to change, something that has never been scientifically proven. He'll just earn himself more detentions and other types of punishment if he continues to resist her in the open, instead of adapting more clandestine methods. **_

_**I hope that your life will lighten up soon, and that the terror twins will finish with their Puking Pastilles and Nosebleed Nougats soon. **_

_**Ex animo,**_

_**Bill**_

After that, he did not correspond with Ginny again, and his days fell into a dull rhythm that revolved around setting up curses on Gringotts vaults, trying to convince the goblins that they should accept Dumbledore's version of last summer's events and should risk their necks in the struggle against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, teaching Fleur English during their lunch hours, and standing guard outside the Department of Mysteries' door upon Dumbledore's orders once a week for some bizarre reason understood only by the headmaster of Hogwarts.

However, his routine was shattered most unpleasantly when Ragnok entered his office with only a perfunctory knock two days before Bill's siblings and harry would come home for Christmas holidays, and barked in Gobbledegook, "Weasley, I want you to attend a seasonal party."

By seasonal, Bill understood that the goblin was referring to a Christmas celebration of sorts. "When?"

"Tonight starting at seven," Ragnok grunted.

"That's awfully short notice," he remarked casually, concealing his relief that he did not have guard duty that night, since Ragnok would probably have insisted on Bill' s attendance, because he would not comprehend that holiday commitments were serious business to humans.

"Don't complain," snarled Ragnok, "for I'm willing to pay you double overtime, and you'll get a free catered meal, which is something humans always appreciate."

"What am I supposed to be doing at this party that's worth paying me double overtime for?" Bill drawled, arching his eyebrows.

"There is a wealthy gentleman who is interested in the prospect of investing thousands of Galleons in our Egyptian treasure hunts, but before he invests his money in this venture, he wants to know that it is a profitable one. He has invited a representative of Gringotts to discuss the matter with him at his party tonight, and we have already supplied him with your name, as you are the only employee here with firsthand experience in Egypt, and humans find eyewitness accounts very convincing for some reason. Therefore, you will attend the seasonal get-together, and assure him that this is the best possible use he could put his money to. Do you understand me, Weasley?"

"Completely." Bill nodded seriously, recognizing that the goblin expected him to be successful, and already compiling persuasive recollections of riches he'd gathered from his memory stores.

"Then I hope that your enterprise is nothing short of productive and profitable." As he established as much, Ragnok shoved two slips of parchment across Bill's desk, and educated him in a clipped voice, "Those are directions to the man's mansion on top, and the second piece of parchment is your invitation to the party, which you'll need to get in."

"Got it." Nodding calmly, Bill tucked both pieces of paper into the pocket of his robes, and saluted Ragnok with his quill. "We both had better get back to work. I need to replace some old spells on level J-13."

"To work," echoed Ragnok as he departed.

When Bill arrived in his home kitchen at 5:45, his mother greeted him hurriedly, "Oh, hello, dear. We're eating in five minutes, because your father's got duty tonight."

"That's good," responded Bill, settling himself in the chair to the left of his dad, who was already waiting patiently at the table along with the salad and the bread, "as I'm supposed to go to a Christmas party at seven o'clock tonight."

"What a surprise," Mr. Weasley commented, pouring himself a glass of wine. "So, who invited you, but failed to extend the invitation to us?"

"Some wealthy person with more gold than he knows what to do with." Bill shrugged, as he filled his own goblet with wine. "Ragnok advises me that he is interested in investing thousands of Galleons into the bank's treasure-hunting exploits in Egypt, and I'm ordered to come on behalf of Gringotts to convince him that it is worth his while to do so, because I'm the only Gringotts worker in London who has worked in Egypt, as well."

"You could tell your mother about these sorts of occasions in advance," chided Mrs. Weasley, as she placed a tureen of stew in the center of the table. "I would have cooked for only two people, then. Honestly, you take me for granted too much for my liking."

"Mum, you wound me," grinned Bill, dishing himself a bowl full of stew. "I am aware of just how fortunate I am to have the parents I do, and, moreover, I don't take you for granted. For the record, I wasn't even aware that I'd be attending such an extravaganza until Ragnok burst into my office today with that revelation. Also, you need not worry about my not devouring the supper you labored over, for I would rather consume your mouth-watering food over catered, mass-produced junk any day." When he finished this pronouncement, he leaned forward, and pecked her gently on each cheek, before starting in on his dinner with admirable vigor.

"Well, all right, then, dear." Mrs. Weasley softened for moment, touching her cheeks where he had kissed her. Then, she regained her brisk approach as she eyed his hair and earring distastefully. "Now, are you quite sure that you don't want to remove your earring, and have me trim your hair so you look more professional?"

"No, thank you," Bill refused her, combining patience and firmness equally in his tone, as he scraped the bottom of his bowl, collecting the remnants of stew. "As I've already explained to you numerous times recently, nobody at the bank gives a damn what I wear as long I do my job well enough to deserve my salary."

"Maybe the bank doesn't care, but other people might judge you based on―"

"Not everyone is as conservative as you, Mum," Bill answered, reaching for more wine.

Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to reply to this challenge, but her husband cut over her. Pointing at Bill's wineglass, Mr. Weasley stated, "Be careful not to drink too much. Remember, there will probably be spirits at the party."

"I don't plan on drinking any of those, Dad," his son returned, supping his wine, "Because they'll probably be watered down in the Roman style of saving money." With that, he drained the rest of his glass, and pashed himself away from the table. "I'd better go change now. Wish me luck."

A little after seven, Bill arrived outside the wrought-iron gate of a massive Victorian manor in the middle of the English countryside. Instinctively, because he felt like a fish out of water or a cat up an oak tree in such a place, his eyes flicked to his invitation, which he could easily discern in the flickering torches lining the sprawling yard that were spelled to blaze in a rainbow of colors. A servant in navy blue robes approached him, bowing. "Sir. May I see your invitation?"

Wordlessly, Bill proffered the requested parchment. After scanning the paper disinterestedly for a moment, recognition flared in the man's face. "You are the Gringotts representative," he observed, his voice making it more of a statement than a question.

"Yes."

"In that case, please follow me, sir," the servant commanded. Without waiting for a response, he bustled off with Bill following his steps down the neat brick paths through the extensive gardens with their exotic plants, up the granite steps to the Victorian manor, and into the entrance hall. Sound battered their ears the instant they entered the mansion.

As the servant directed Bill through the corridors, lovely flowers in Grecian urns spaced evenly down the halls wafted their sweet, overwhelmingly sensual aromas at him. Servers in white robes brushed pass him, bearing trays that were arrayed with hundreds of different appetizers. All along the halls, rooms were filled with people dancing to the music played by the dozens of bands that must have been hired for the event, decked out in their finest dress robes.

Finally, the servant led him into one the rooms. The instant he entered the chamber, Bill's senses went into overload, because of the lavish decorations strung throughout every inch of the dancing hall. Tables groaning under wine, punch, and delicacies were crammed into every corner. The music played by the band in this room was hard to hear due to the music blaring in the other chambers. Obviously, one party wasn't enough for the host, who seemed to feel compelled to pile ten parties into one gigantic extravaganza, or, less charitably, a gaudy, ostentatious jumble. There was so much food, drink, and music at the get-together that the guests were all stumbling about as if they were intoxicated, though it was much too early in the evening for that to be true.

A broad-backed man in an olive-colored dress robed came into view. Jabbing his head at him, Bill's guide whispered, "There's my master."

As soon as he had expressed that, the servant stepped forward tentatively, and, bowing to his employer, announced, "Sir, the Gringotts representative has arrived." When the host arched his eyebrows, the servant pointed at Bill.

Imperiously, the man in olive dress robes nodded at the door, and the servant hastened out without a backward glance. Once the servant vanished, the wealthy mansion owner beamed at Bill, and went over to greet him, his hand outstretched. "Welcome to my humble home. I understand that goblins have little use for first names, so they might have neglected to tell you that my name is Cassius Gibson."

"I'm Bill Weasley." It required more effort than it typically did for him to give Cassius a hearty handshake and a warm smile, but he managed to pull it off.

"Weasley?" Cassius demanded keenly. "Are you perhaps related to Percy Weasley, who was just appointed, at a remarkably young age, might I add, the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister?"

"Yes, he's my younger brother." Bill imagined that his grin slipped several inches at the mention of Percy.

"Excellent, excellent," mumbled Cassius with an almost absent-minded air. Becoming more business-like, he resumed, "As the goblins have doubtlessly explained to you, Mr. Weasley, I'm toying with the notion of investing some of my gold in Gringotts treasure-hunting in Egypt, hoping that my money will multiply."

"I would definitely advise you to invest your money in such an endeavor," Bill began, grabbing a glass of pumpkin juice from a passing house-elf, because he desired to maintain a sober mind and a throat that was not dry. "The Egyptians were the richest and most powerful civilization on the globe for centuries, and the pharaohs were, therefore, able to pamper themselves. Natually, the same lavishness appeared in their tombs, which are filled with valuable metals, jewels, containers, and furniture."

"Granted." Cassius tapped his upper lip musingly. "However, what assurance have I that new tombs will continue to be found when so many have been discovered, especially by Muggles, in recent years"

"I promise you, Mr. Gibosn, that such concern is unwarranted. First of all, we have yet to uncover the burial places of scores of pharaohs, not to mention the resting places of queens, princes, princesses, nobles, and high priests, as well was come middle class people who could afford the luxury of mummification. In short, I believe that we have barely tapped the Egyptian well of wealth."

"Quite." While he considered this, Cassius bobbed his head up and down without appearing to be fully conscious of doing so, a distant expression hazing his eyes. "You make valid arguments that are certainly worth my attention. Still, you have failed to address the problem of Muggles breaking into all the pyramids first."

"On that account, you need not fret, for Muggles only _think_ they've broken into ancient Egyptian tombs."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Muggles keep uncovering tombs created by modern Egyptians for the purpose of taunting Muggles. The Egyptian Ministry has been unsuccessful in curtailing this sort of behavior. You may rest assured that Muggles would be killed, because they don't know how to disband the curses placed on the Egyptian pyramids by the magician priests, if they ever even discovered an actual tomb."

"I see. Excuse me for a moment." Without waiting for an answer, Cassius turned his back on him to snatch the loincloth of a nearby house-elf. A complete transfiguration went through his tone, so that it was no longer unctuous, but rather as sharp as barbed wire, and as cold as death, "What on earth are you serving now, you cringing vermin?"

"Fruit salad, sir, I is serving fruit salad," squeaked the terrified house-elf, his bulbous eyes the size of Muggle basketballs.

"Congratulations, imbecile. You are officially the dumbest member of a species that is even stupider than slugs," Cassius hissed at the pathetic, cowering elf. In that second, Bill felt his heart go out to the poor creature. Sometimes he was ashamed to be human when he witnessed the appalling cruelty his species were capable of displaying on a regular basis to members of other races, like the goblins, the centaurs, the giants, and the werewolves. At the very least, it helped him comprehend why some groups were ardently anti-human. He was dragged back down to the planet by Cassius' seething. "You're supposed to be serving the potato salad at the moment, not the fruit salad. Anyone with a single blasted thought in their head could determine that fruit salad is clearly a dessert, while potato salad is just as plainly an appetizer―"

"In the kitchens, they is telling me, sir―" stammered the house-elf in a feeble attempt at self-defense.

With an indifference that rattled Bill to the core of his being, Cassius cuffed the elf about the face so forcefully that the slight frame toppled to the carpeted ground with a faint whimper.

"When I desire to hear your invaluable opinion, vile elf, I will shake your cage. Until then, I don't want to hear a single word of your disgusting mouth."

Knowing better than to answer this remark, the house-elf remained crumpled on the floor, and his owner eyed him with revulsion, as if the elf consisted of dung instead of flesh and blood like everybody else. "Get off the floor, then, you stunted slime, and return the fruit salad to the kitchen immediately. While you're at it, bring out the potato salad. We'll discuss this later, mind you, so don't think you've escaped punishment for your idiotic blunder."

As the elf scurried off, presumably headed toward the kitchens, Cassius pivoted to smile at Bill once more, and his guest shivered inwardly at the hollowness, the essential lack of a heart or soul in this man. "I'm so sorry to interrupt our discussion, Mr. Weasley, but you must understand that there are some duties a good host must attend to."

"Of course. I have nothing to forgive you for, Mr. Gibson." Bill tried to prevent the contempt he felt for the being before him from advertizing itself in his facial expression, or his voice. The statement was true, after all, because it was God and the abused house-elf that would have to forgive Cassius, not Bill.

Apparently, this satisfied Cassius, for he continued their earlier conversation, as though he had not just manhandled a pitiful house-elf, "I hope you won't think me too nosy, but I am interested in hearing your qualifications to speak upon the matter of my investment."

"I don't think you nosy. It's a fair question. I worked in Egypt as a Curse-Breaker up until this summer, so I can promise you that all I have told you is based on my firsthand experiences and observations."

"I take it that you've seen many riches, then?" Cassius asked sharply, getting to the heart of the matter.

"Yes, in one pyramid, I've probably laid eyes on more gold than most people do in their entire lives," avowed Bill.

"I see. That answers all my questions." Once again, Cassius reached out to shake Bill's hand, and, once more, it took all of Bill's strength not to recoil, but to wear a grin and return the grip warmly. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley, for coming out to my party during the holiday season. I will be in touch with Gringotts about the matter of the investment tomorrow. Have a good night."

"You too," Bill replied, already retreating as fast as he could without seeming impolite.

When he returned home, he expected his mum to be there, so he could confide in her. Instead, he found a dark, deserted house. At first, he was afraid that the Death Eaters had come and murdered his mother, but, to his relief, when he entered, he saw that she had left him a note on the table.

Unfortunately, his relief was quickly transformed to disquiet as he read Mrs. Weasley's hastily scrawled letter:

_Bill-_

_I've gone to St. Mungo's. Your father was attacked by You-Know-Who's snake while on guard duty. I don't have time to explain anything else. Please go to the hospital as soon as you return home. _

_Love, _

_Mum_

Tears splotched the parchment, making some parts of it challenging to read. For one dreadful moment, Bill stared numbly at the parchment, as though it had been written in Arabic or Hebrew. It was that incomprehensible to him. His dad could not be attacked, or injured. By definition, the man was unassailable.

Then, when his reason began to catch up with his denial, he plopped into the nearest chair, rubbing his temples. Questions to which there were no answers spiraled about his head at nine million miles an hour. What exactly had happened to his dad? What was You-Know-Who's snake doing in the Ministry, anyhow? Would the Ministry finally see reason now? Probably not.

Who had found his dad? If it had been a Ministry worker, would Mr. Weasley be in trouble, because he had been there so late? And, most importantly, was his father dead or alive, and would he survive this night?

As this question came to him, Bill scanned his mother's short note once more, seeking signs of reassurance. There was nothing there to suggest that Mr. Weasley had died, which was in itself a comfort, though the terse wording implied that the damage Mr. Weasley had sustained had been considerable since his wife had been in such a hurry to go see him.

Well, he would get no further answers here. He would have to go visit his father, and face the harsh reality of what had happened his dad, he decided as he Apparated.


	51. Chapter 51

A Cold Christmas

A Cold Christmas

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter. Thanks for playing, anyway, and better luck next time.

Reviews: I'd love to hear from you. (Figuratively, of course, since we can't really "hear" each other over the Internet very well.)

Author's Note: I'm not exactly satisfied with the title, so if you have a suggestion, please feel free to let me know. Hopefully, I was able to describe Bill's feelings when he was in the hospital with his dad adequately. I was trying to draw on how I felt when my dad had his knee replaced last summer, and all the complex emotions that were whirling about inside me when I had to visit him in the hospital and the rehab center. So, anyway, to get back to business, I hope this chapter turns out okay. Sorry if any of it seems choppy or weak. Just remember, I'm only seventeen, and so I'm drawing on limited experience, so be gentle with me. Happy reading:

When Bill first entered the room the Welcome Witch in the St. Mungo's atrium directed him up to, he was utterly convinced that she had steered him incorrectly, or, more likely, that he had taken a wrong turn in some hallway or other. The motionless, ashen-faced man, with his face still marred by crimson fang cuts, hooked up to flasks that were magically pouring various antidotes into him, could not possibly be his father.

Just as he reached this conclusion, and was pivoting on his heel to depart, the stocky fire-topped woman who was sobbing her eyes out onto the man's sheet, looked up at him. About to apologize for intruding upon her private grief, the words evaporated in Bill's mouth when he recognized with a pang that he was looking at his mother.

"Bill!" Mrs. Weasley raced forward to wrap her arms around him. As soon as she clutched her oldest son, the volume and intensity of her wails increased. Awkwardly, still shocked by his dad's vulnerable appearance, Bill patted her on the back, but could not invent any words to comfort her. After a moment's intense crying, Mrs. Weasley continued shakily, "Oh, thank God, you're here at last! The twins, Ron, and Ginny are all at Grimmauld Place with Sirius now, because we n―n―needed to get them out of that d―d―dreadful old Umbrdige's clutches, so she can't question them, and I've already wrote a letter explaining to them that they're to stay put and that their dad is still alive. Arthur hasn't awoken yet, obviously, but he's still―still alive―"

"Of course he is," answered Bill firmly, unwilling to even contemplate the idea that his father could perish. Sure, he realized that one day the man would pass on, but that wouldn't occur for many years to come. Mr. Weasley would get to spend much more time with his wife, children, and grandchildren beforehand, and he would go peacefully in his sleep, or something. "Dad's not going to die."

"The Healers have given him all the potions they can, and taken out all of that horrible snake's venom that they could, and they can be here in less than a moment's notice if Arthur seems to be― worsening. I'm just so grateful that Harry witnessed it all in his dream, or whatever it was, or else he knows what would have happened to Arthur," Mrs. Weasley plowed on wetly, without noting her companion's response. At this point, she broke free of Bill, and charged back to her spouse's bedside to sob over his limp frame, as though she could not bare to be even a few feet apart from her husband for more than a few minutes.

"Harry's a good kid," agreed Bill, nodding without being fully aware as to what he was stating. While he established as much, he started to approach Mr. Weasley's cot, but halted abruptly when he was faced with the frail, helpless, and almost unfamiliar figure before him. Unable to face this being that bore no resemblance to his father, he spun about, and began pacing back and forth, not even bothering to count the tiles on the sterile hospital room floor.

As he paced, memories of his father trickled through him, and a million insignificant experiences that he thought he had forgotten filled his brain. Suddenly, he recollected his dad reading him and Charlie bedtime stories, and playing games with him and his siblings. Then, with a tinge of shame, he remembered all the times he had shouted at his father, and how he had never held it against him. For second, as he turned to pace the other way, Bill was confronted with his father's pale visage, and he was reminded of just how badly the man was wounded, and how he was tip-toeing between life and death. He felt this knowledge choke him. If his father did die, Bill would never be able to apologize for all the cruel things he had said or done to him, and his last words to the man would be about something as stupid as wine, instead of "I love you."

Then, unbidden, rage rose up inside him, a rage directed at You-Know-Who, at You-Know-Who's snake, and at the Death Eaters. He understood that such ire would not help him, but he could not control it. If only he could hunt down the creature who was responsible for his father's suffering, and make the creature endure the same agony as Mr. Weasley. Yet, that was impossible to do...unless he could tap his rage, and use it as a resource. But, no, he couldn't do that. That would bring him perilously close to the Dark side, and he was supposed to drive out the darkness, not become it.

How long he and his mother both waited in silence, with the only interruption the steady sound of Bill's feet echoing against the floor at regular intervals, as he walked from one side of the chamber to the other, studiously avoiding looking at his dad's bed, Bill did not know. He had a watch on him, and he supposed he could have glanced at it to ascertain the time. Yet, he did not do so. Oddly enough, he seemed to be trapped in a hazy alternate universe in which time had not the slightest significance. It was as though Mr. Weasley's injury had stopped time for Bill. How many times he paced across the hospital room that imprisoned the three Weasleys, Bill would also never know, because he did not have the focus necessary to count. Distance, like time, was of no consequence to him. However, he did suspect that it was sometime early in the morning after the party, at perhaps one, two, or three in the morning, and sometime during his nine thousandth pace, that his father finally opened his eyes a sliver, and it was amazing what joy such a simple act could spark in Mrs. Weasley.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with even more tears, although they were tears of delighted relief, rather than grief. "Oh, praise the Lord, you're awake! I was so worried, so worried!"

Now that Mr. Weasley had awoken, Bill suddenly no longer felt the compulsion to pace, and, instead, was overwhelmed by the need to dart over to his dad's side. When he stood ineffectually before the feeble body with the eyes that were open a slit, Bill wanted more than anything to throw his arms about his father, and never let him go, but he calculated that the man was not strong enough to endure such a crushing embrace at the moment. In fact, it seemed likely that Mr. Weasley, like porcelain, was liable to break at the lightest touch. In the end, all he did was mutter stupidly, as if he were a three-year-old afraid of the dark, "Daddy."

Bill's heart was cleaved into two pieces while he watched, as though it were a physical struggle, the addressed gather his strength enough to whisper, "Molly. Bill. I'm sorry."

Puzzled, Bill reached out a hand, and placed it gingerly on top of his father's trembling one with its varicose veins, hoping that would make him feel secure. Wishing he could offer more consolation, he muttered, "Dad, it's okay."

"Don't ever be sorry for fighting You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters," Molly insisted, her eyes blazing. "We all knew that we could be hurt in the struggle, but we decided to take that risk. I love you, because you're willing to make that sacrifice, as― as am I."

"Not sorry for fighting. Or being injured," choked out Mr. Weasley between harrowing intakes of oxygen that rattled his whole body, and Bill wanted to send his own energy, and his own strength into his parent, but he knew he would never be able to do so, which was the greatest tragedy of love. "Sorry for falling asleep on guard duty."

"Hey, even men need their beauty sleep." Bill shrugged, even as he wished that he had the courage to say that he was the one that should be sorry, sorry for all things he should have said to the man, but had not. Yet, he could not find the words to express any of the complex emotions coursing through his body, and so he said nothing.

"Everyone requires a certain amount of rest," Mrs. Weasley reminded her husband vehemently, "and when a person is very tired, he is likely to fall asleep. It's nothing to apologize for."

After that, Mr. Weasley's eyes slipped closed again. His eyelashes cast shadows on his pale cheeks, and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his skin, which Bill prayed meant that he was sweating out some of the toxins in the venom that the Healers were unable to remove. Both Bill and his mother were quiet as they watched Mr. Weasley sleep, and too anxious about his fate to long to join him in such an endeavor.

Finally, at around five in the morning, Mr. Weasley jerked upright abruptly, propping himself up on his mound of pillows, and snatched a bowl from the bedside table. Then, he vomited copiously into it. When the Healer came in to take the bowl away for cleaning, she reassured them that the throw-up was a good sign, because it meant that the snake's venom had mostly been ejected entirely from Mr. Weasley. It seemed that the Healer was accurate in her assessment, because afterward, Mr. Weasley was able to prop himself up on his pillows, and regained some color.

Silence filled the room again, until Mrs. Weasley commented, "Arthur, love, the twins, Ron, and Ginny are all at Grimmauld Place with Harry and Sirius. You don't mind if I go and tell them that you're awake and everything, do you?"

Mr. Weasley shook his head to show he did not mind, and his spouse rose, kissed each of them on the cheek, and walked out of the room, leaving Bill alone with his dad. As Mrs. Weasley exited, Mr. Weasley fixed his eyes on his child. "The party. How was it?"

"It was awful," replied Bill, deciding that he would keep talking as long as possible to take the man's mind off his pain. "The man, Cassius Gibson, was a nasty person, who beat his house-elf and verbally abused him, and everything. It was appalling to watch. I wish I consumed more wine, because then I might be able to forget the experience. Still, I might have made a big deal for Gringotts, because Cassius seemed to be swayed by my arguments. That will be good, because then the goblins will be more likely to grant my request for the morning off of work."

"You're taking the morning off?" coughed Mr. Weasley.

"Of course I'm taking the morning off," Bill informed him, a tad impatiently. "You didn't think that I'd leave you here alone for hours on end, waiting for Mum to return here with the others, did you?" Without waiting for an answer, he added in a more thoughtful manner, "Besides, I'll have a ready excuse, so as to not arouse suspicion. When I write an owl to the goblins requesting the morning off work, I'll just claim that I have a hangover from last night's party. I'd write the letter now, but it will be more credible if I wait until later in the morning."

After that, they talked, Mr. Weasley steadily gaining strength as time wore by, until the sun began to rise, and Bill composed a hurried letter to the Gringotts manager, requesting the morning off so he could recover from a hangover he had sustained at last night's party. As he had anticipated, his request was granted, and the goblin even added that the bank did not mind if Bill had gotten drunk, because at least he had been successful in getting Cassius Gibson to invest a great sum of gold into the Gringotts treasure-hunting exploits in Egypt, possibly because he had gotten Gibson into a drunken stupor of generosity, as was wont to happen to weak humans.

Bill spent his morning off work with his dad, and was pleased to see that more color was seeping into the man's cheeks, and his remarks were getting longer and less full of heavy breathing pauses. When one in the afternoon approached, Bill sighed, and educated his comrade, "Sorry, Dad. I'd better get off to work, or I might be fired, even though I think I'm in relatively good graces at the moment, which means I can arrive up to a minute late for work. Don't worry, because you won't be alone for long, as I reckon Mum and the others will drop in to visit you soon. I'll get you an outrageously expensive magazine from the hospital gift shop before I go to keep you occupied until she arrives."

With a wave to his father, Bill stepped out into the corridor, and hurried over to the stairwell, which he took up to the last floor, where the gift shop was located. Unfortunately, the hospital shop did not offer a very broad selection of periodicals to choose from. In fact, it only sold the _Daily Prophet_, and some lunatic tabloid called _The_ _Quibbler, _which was even less accurate than the _Daily Prophet_. Cursing whoever stocked the store thoroughly under his breath, he purchased the _Daily Prophet_ at a comically inflated price, and carried it back down to his parent, apologizing for the fact that the shop had nothing better, and promising that next time around he would bring something better.

It was when he Apparated into work, when the pressure that had filled him, keeping him awake for the past God-only-knew how many hours, finally ebbed out of him, that Bill realized just how exhausted he was, and he wondered how on earth he could possibly perform his duties at work when all he really wanted to do was curl up in his bed, and sleep for a century, or however long it took for the war against You-Know-Who to be over, and for him to catch up on all the sleep he was missing.

His gloom was relieved somewhat when he saw Fleur Delacour approaching him, as she dashed up the Gringotts steps, her silver hair, as alluring as ever, trailing behind her. However, his gloom returned to him when he saw that she was furious, and was headed right at him, which implied that it was him that had aggravated her, and which meant that she was unlikely to cheer him.

"I 'ope you 'ad a tremendous laugh at what you did to me," she snarled at him, her wrath making her the ugliest he had ever seen her, "because, I assure you, I did not."

"I have no idea what in the world you are shouting about, Fleur," he protested, gesturing for her to lower her voice, since many Gringotts employees and patrons were starting to stare at them, and he really was too worn out to deal with being the center of attention at them moment. "I did nothing to you."

"Well, zat makes me feel so much better," snorted Fleur, her eyes storming at him. "I suppose zat I should 'ave known zat you could just call off any engagement zat ze two of us might 'ave scheduled without even notifying me. I should 'ave known that I meant nozzing to you."

"I must confess that I still have no blasted clue what you're raging at me about." Bill rubbed his temples, looking around for somewhere he could sit down, and nod his head without anyone noticing.

"You don't 'ave any notion?" Fleur's arms folded over her chest, which, now that he considered the matter, appeared to be an excellent and soft location to rest his head.

"No."

"Zen I shall remind you, Meester. You and I always spend our lunch hour together, because you are teaching me English. You remember now, oui?"

"We didn't make an appointment," Bill argued. He sensed that he probably sounded callous, but if she had realized what he had gone through in the past few hours, she might not have been so quick to condemn him. "We just frequently end up sharing our lunch hours, and I take advantage of the opportunity to give you a little bit of English instruction. That's all. There's nothing to get emotional about."

"Is zat all we are to each other, zen?" Fleur's balled fists shifted from her chest to her hips, and he imagined that she longed to sock him in the mouth or the eyeball, but was only just managing to restrain herself.

"Yes," growled Bill, finally losing his temper entirely with her. All he wanted at the moment was too be left alone, and if she couldn't understand that, then they weren't made for each other, and, although, as he had just screamed at her, there was nothing romantic going on between the pair of them. She was nothing to him, and he was nothing to her, he told himself. Still, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind asked why the heck she should be so upset about his failure to show up if he was nothing to her. Never mind. He shoved the thought to the rear of his befuddled brain which was not functioning half as well as he liked to imagine it typically did. He would deal with the Fleur problem after he had fallen asleep for ten years or so.

Seeing that Fleur had opened her mouth to speak, he turned away from her, effectively cutting her off, and then hurried off to his office, where he slammed the door behind him. The slam relieved some of the tension coiled inside him and let out most of the fury boiling in him, and he collapsed into his chair, where he rested his head on the cool wood of his desk, deriving comfort from its cool smoothness. Ah, all he wanted to do now was sleep, and this desk would do very nicely for that purpose, since it was so flat. In fact, the place where he slept, he decided blearily, would not even have to be flat, because a bed of jagged rocks would really make a charming bed, now that he considered the notion…

A little while later, he jerked up when his door swung open. His mood remained sour when he spotted Fleur standing in the threshold. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"I wished to talk with you."

"About work?" Bill arched his eyebrows at her, hoping for both affirmative and negative answers at the same time.

"No."

"Then I suggest you leave." Some savage instinct conquered him and caused him to point a finger at the door, which she had shut behind her. "Gringotts is very concerned about sexual harassment and all recently, and I wouldn't want anyone to misconstrue our relationship, and put either of us in a compromising position."

"If somebody sees sexual activity behind every closed door, zey 'ave problems enough of zeir, own," Fleur retorted. "I 'eard from Ragnok that you were at a party last night for Gringotts."

"Yes."

"You 'ad a hangover zat you wanted to sleep off."

"Yes."

"Zen 'ow come you are still exhausted if you spent all morning sleeping?"

"That's none of your business."

Fleur ignored this, and pressed on, "Perhaps you were doing something else in bed?"

"Again, Miss Delacour, I think that my love life is of no consequence to you," Bill mumbled, "but for your information, I was not with a woman, and currently I'm not dating anyone, and when I do date someone, they're the only woman I date."

"Zen where were you?" Fleur's eyes narrowed.

Bill debated lying, but determined in the end that a half-truth was sufficient in this case. "If you must know, I was in the hospital with my father."

"Oh." At this update, Fleur seemed to soften, and then, abruptly, she had leaned forward, and brought her lips to his. The kiss was deep and passionate, and she didn't appear inclined to terminate it anytime soon. At last he felt what it was like to touch her lips to his, and he realized that he had been contemplating it for days, weeks, or possibly months, and he was not disappointed, because he could feel her softness and her strength in her kiss. Once he became fully aware of what was occurring, Bill pushed her away from him, firmly enough to stop her, but not firmly enough to discourage her entirely, he hoped.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Blushing, something that Bill had never witnessed her doing before, she admitted, "I was so mad at you for leaving me alone at lunch hour and everything, because I― how do I say it in English?—am attracted to you."

Oh, God, this is too much for me to handle, Bill groaned inwardly as he buried his head in his palms. Deciding that God wasn't going to intervene on his behalf, he stated finally, "Heavens, Fleur, I've been drawn to you from the moment I laid eyes on you, but I was afraid to say anything, too, and I'd love to go out with you, and everything, but you'd have to understand that my family is very important to me, and that if something happens to them, I'm going to make every effort to be there for them."

"I know zat you care about your family, and I care about mine, too." Fleur stiffened. "I thought zat you were with another woman, and zat's why I shouted at you today."

"I understand." Bill nodded. "And I'm sorry I didn't send you an owl. Next time I will."

Then, he kissed her, and something broke free of some tether inside him that he wasn't even aware was present until this moment. He was flooded with a feeling that he could name, because he did not dare to name it, because then he would have to acknowledge it, and now was hardly the appropriate time to be falling in love, but since when did anyone have a choice in such matters? And she was suddenly the most real thing in his world, more real than the danger the whole world was in, and his father's affliction. What he wanted more than anything at the moment was for this kiss, this dream, to last forever. However, it couldn't last forever, this time, she shoved him off her.

"From now on, you will tell me ze truth about where you are, and what you are up to," Fleur asserted.

"Fleur, I—" he sputtered.

"You zink zat I don't have a clue what going on, do you?" she charged.

"I." Not having any notion how to continue, Bill trailed off, wondering vaguely what it was about her that made him inarticulate when he was generally decent enough at expressing himself.

"I know zat you did not return to England just to be with your family again," resumed Fleur, ignoring his feeble protests. "You came back 'ere to fight You-Know-Who, and it's about time you learned zat my reasons for coming 'ere were ze smae as yours."

"But you came here to learn English!" Bill exclaimed, his eyes protruding at least several inches out of his head, he envisioned.

"Do you seriously believe zat I would come 'ere just to perfect my grasp of your 'arsh, ugly language?" she snorted, and Bill chuckled, as he recognized the fact that he had been foolish not to detect the true reason why Fleur Delacour had traveled to England.

"Remind me to stop underestimating you," he grinned, once he could speak.

"Gladly." Beaming, Fleur placed her hand atop his, and an explosion rocked Bill just at her touch, her bare flesh against his. Heat pounded through his veins as she leaned forward, and brushed her lips on his cheeks and his nose, and, in that instant, he was connected to her, bound to her no matter what the future held. Fleur. He itched to say her name aloud, and he never wanted to move from this office where they were alone together.

Tentatively, Bill reached out his right hand and stroked her silky, silvery locks, which was something he had longed to do ever since he had first laid eyes on her, and couldn't believe he was finally doing. In fact, he had trouble accepting that any of this was happening. For a moment, they remained like that, and then they broke away from each other awkwardly.

"I'd better get back to work, before Ragnok finds my pretense of you needing to sign something for me suspicious," remarked Fleur, as she turned to go, leaving Bill with a last trace of her flowery perfume.

"Yeah, I'd better get out and start placing spells on the vaults before I fall asleep again," Bill responded, pushing himself out of his chair with some difficulty, because he still really wanted to collapse into a deep sleep, instead of work, but that didn't seem possible.

When Bill arrived at number twelve Grimmauld Place, where the Weasleys were staying again until Mr. Weasley recovered, that evening, he headed to the kitchen to throw himself together a sandwich, because he had missed the standard dinner hour, since he had chosen to go for a walk with Fleur to make up for the lunch he had skipped. He was surprised to find Ginny sitting at the table, glowering down at a cup of tea she must have just brewed for herself.

"Stare any harder at that tea, lioness, and it will evaporate," he teased her, tugging her hair, as he passed her.

"And it's a little early for a midnight snack, isn't it?" retorted Ginny, focusing her scowl on him, instead, as he took out the ingredients necessary to concoct a sandwich.

"It's dinner, actually. So, what's troubling you?" Bill smiled, putting the cheese and meat on the bread, closing the sandwich, and plopping into the seat opposite her.

"Harry's being the world's biggest idiot." Irately, Ginny spooned to into her mouth with far more vigor than such a task required.

"You sure you aren't talking about Ron?" Bill arched his eyebrows at her.

"No, this time it's Harry that's being a jerk, not Ron. When we went to the hospital to see Dad today, we employed Fred and George's Extendable Ears to listen in on what Moody, Tonks, Mum, and Dad were saying to each other about how Harry had seen the snake attack Dad, because he was in You-Know-Who's mind, or something. Harry has taken their words to mean that he's dangerous and possessed by You-Know-Who or something, and he won't look at or talk to any of us!" fumed Ginny. "If he would just listen to me, he would find out that he hasn't been possessed as long as there aren't massive blank periods in his memory."

In her towering temper, Ginny shoved herself away from the table, her chair squeaking piteously on the stone floor, snatched up her steaming beverage, and rose to her feet so forcefully that a wave of her tea landed on her robes, and a Galleon toppled out to the folds of her clothing.

As he switched his wand at the girl's robes to dry them, Bill bent over to scoop up the coin, intrigued by the fact that his sister should carry that much gold on her person.

"Give that back to me!" Ginny tried to tug the money out of his grasp, but he twisted out of her reach, more interested in holding onto the coin now, because of her reaction.

"Manners, tigress," he chided.

"Fine. Give it back to me, _please_, Bill," conceded Ginny, none to graciously.

"First you have to tell me how you came by this." Her brother crossed his arms over his chest.

"That's none of your affair!"

"Anything my little sister does is my business, and I'd very much like to hear how a fourteen-year-old girl from a poor family who has no job of her own, came to have a Galleon in her pocket? Whom did she rob?"

"I'm not a thief!" Ginny flared up defensively, her cheeks strawberries.

"Nope." Bill coolly scrutinized the coin. "You've just taken to using fraudulent money."

"What?" Ginny's mouth was agape in her astonishment. "How did you know it was a fake?"

"I'm a Gringotts Curse-Breajker, so I wouldn't be worth my salt if I couldn't tell it was a fake, because those serial numbers aren't real."

"Oh." For a moment, there was quiet between the two Weasley siblings, before Ginny continued, "Bill, I swear I wasn't planning on spending it."

"I didn't think so, because, if you were, you would have run off a few more for yourself while you were at it. However, you still haven't explained how you came by this."

"Hermione Granger gave it to me."

"Hermione?" Shaking his head, Bill observed, "She never struck me as the type who would violate Wizarding law by printing invalid currency, not that I am too close to her, mind you."

"It's for the D.A.," whispered Ginny.

"The what?"

"The D.A., which is short for Dumbledore's Army," she clarified.

"Doesn't he have the Order of the Phoenix to serve that function already?" Bill asked, half joking and half serious.

"The D.A. is for the people that are too young to join the Order, but who are still devoted to fighting You-Know-Who, and is comprised of Hogwarts students who want to assemble once a week to learn real defensive magic from Harry, instead of the rubbish Umbridge shoves down our unwilling throats."

"I see you took my advice about setting up your own study group, then?' Bill winked at her. "I'm flattered."

"Yeah, I suggested the idea to Hermione, and she ran with it, and got Harry to agree to be leader and everything, because he didn't want to at first for some stupid noble reason or other. I would've written to you about it, bit Hermione told me that Umbridge is reading owls in and out of the school, so it hardly seemed prudent."

"That makes sense." Nodding his head in comprehension, Bill offered the Galleon to his companion, who took it instantly out of his hand. "She is a clever young witch, that Hermione Granger."

"You've no notion," Ginny educated him dryly. "She's the one who invented the idea of using false Galleons to communicate the date and time of meetings, because she put a Protean Charm on the Galleons so that the serial numbers on them to change to reflect the new meeting date and time, and so they would burn when the time and date was altered."

"Hermione can perform a Protean Charm?" whistled Bill. "Wow, that's N.E.W.T standard. You teenagers are growing up way too fast for my liking."

For second, Ginny's face hardened as her jaw clenched in a manner characteristic of the terror twins. "We have to now that You-Know-Who's back, since it's our war."

Christmas arrived a few days later, but it lacked to jolly air that engulfed previous Christmases. From the start, when Bill wandered into the kitchen in the morning, he saw his mum crying into Remus' shoulder. "I can't believe that Percy j-j-just sent my sweater back without even a note! And he didn't even ask after his father's health, or anything!"

As he patted his mother on the shoulder in consolation, Bill desired nothing more than to sock Percy in the face for causing Mrs. Weasley even more anguish. Honestly, he could have at least accepted the sweater, and never worn it, rather than intentionally insulting the woman who had given birth to him, and raised him, when most people would probably have drowned him when they realized how aggravating he was.

"It's a male thing," he explained, and Remus bobbed his head in affirmation. "Percy can't give an inch, because then he might end up giving a mile. Therefore, he can't accept your gift, Mum, or else he might look like he's softening his stance on his family. As for the Dad affair, he probably knows from Ministry gossip that Dad's recovering, and he can't show concern over a man he has disowned and who has disowned him."

"I just wish he would try to reconcile with us." Mrs. Weaskey mopped her eyes with the back of her hands, as she took her head off Remus' shoulder. "I would hate any of us to die cross at each other, and these troubled times are more than I can bear."

"We all wish he would come back to us, and, as Fleur would say, in a French accent, 'Every dark has it's day,'" Bill commented, joining the two of them at the table.

"Who is Fleur?" inquired Mrs. Weasley sharply as she got up to prepare breakfast.

"A French girl I work with, and whom I am teaching English lessons, that's all, Mum." Bill held up his palms in a parody of surrender, as Mrs. Weasley cracked some egges.

That afternoon, they went to see Mr. Weasley, transported in a car that Mundungus had stolen, something that it had been challenging to convince Mrs. Weasley to permit. When they got to St. Mungo's, they found Mr. Weasley propped up in his bed with the remnants of his turkey dinner poised on a plastic tray on his lap, and a sheepish expression on his face.

"Is everything all right, Arthur?" asked Mrs. Weasley, who must have detected her husband's sheepish look, once everybody had greeted Mr. Weasley, and dumped their presents on his cot.

"Fine, fine," her spouse reassured her, too quickly and too heartily for earnestness, and Bill wondered with a sinking feeling what his dad had done now. Attempting to sound offhand, Mr. Weasley added, "You―er―haven't seen Healer Smethwyk, have you?"

"No." Mrs. Weasley's eyes contracted suspiciously. "Why?"

"Nothing, nothing." While he unwrapped his gifts with his right hand, Mr. Weasley waved his left airily, dismissing his wife's concern. Changing the topic, he inquired cheerily, "Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas?"

Before anyone could reply, a delighted gasp was emitted from Mr. Weasley, who had just torn open Harry's present of some type of Muggle tools. "Oh, Harry, this is absolutely wonderful!"

As he made this exclamation, he leaned forward to shake Harry's hand in thanks. This, unfortunately, afforded his spouse, who had obviously not been satisfied with her husband's evasive answers, to peer at the bandaging under his nightshirt, and, apparently, whatever she glimpsed conformed her suspicions, for she noted in a razor voice, "Arthur, you've had you bandages changed a day early. They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow."

"What?" Looking both guilty and nervous, Mr. Weasley yanked his covers nearly up to his face, as Bill considered fleeing, but decided to wait until he was sure that his mum would blow up at his dad. "No, no, it's nothing. It's―I―"

Bill rolled his eyes in despair as his father faltered still more under Mrs. Weasley's piercing glare.

"Well, now, don't get upset, Molly," Mr. Weasley began, as Bill started to edge away, thinking that his dad really needed to invent better openers, "but Augustus Pye had an idea…He's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap, and very interested in…um…complementary medicine…I mean, some of these old Muggle rememdies…well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on―on Muggle wounds―"

At this, Mrs. Weasley let out a peculiar noise situated somewhere between the cry of a banshee and the howl of a werewolf, and Bill determined instantly that he really did not want to discover if his dad had attempted to sew his skin back together like a Muggle, because it was obvious that his mum was seconds away from exploiding.

"I'm going to fetch myself a cup of tea, because I'm parched," he muttered, although he was not really thirsty in the slightest, as Remus ambled over to the opposite end of the ward to chat with another patient who had no guests.

"We'll come with you, mate, as we don't want you to get lost, or anything." Fred and George sprang to their feet, and hastened to accompany him to the exit, broad grins etched on their faces.

As they practically sprinted down the corridor toward the stairwell, they could hear Mrs. Weasley shouting at her husband, and it was a relief when they reached the staircase, and shut the door behind them, effectively blocking out their mum's ranting. The three of them climbed the steps to the tea room on the fifth floor, where they each grabbed Styrofoam cups, which they carried over to the hot water dispenser.

Bill had been about to fill his cup with hot water when a female voice hollered, "Bill Weasley, is that you?"

Pivoting, Bill saw Steph standing in the doorway in her crisp white Healer robes. "Steph!"

"It is you!" She hurried up to him, and hugged him for a moment before releasing him. "I heard that you were back from Egypt."

"You heard correctly, then," he smiled at her, as he filled his cup with water. "I've come back here to be with my family and to find an English girl to settle down with."

"You're not married, in that case?" asked Steph, as Bill dumped a tea bag into the boiling water.

"Nope."

"Neither am I, though I could be if I wanted to." Steph sounded defiant somehow, as if he would think her an ugly old spinster. "I'm seeing a man named Alexander steadily, and I know he'd pop the question, if he was certain I'd accept his proposal."

"Why won't you?" Bill raised an eyebrow at her.

Steph sighed, staring off into space, then she hedged, "Look, Bill, in my line of work, you see horrible things that you wished you had never laid eyes on everyday. I can't tell you how many domestic cases I've had, and I can't count the number of occasions I've seen woman put in intensive care by their own husbands. After that, it's hard to trust any man." Biting her lip, she stirred a tea bag about in her water.

"Steph, any man who abuses a woman isn't a real man, you know that," Bill reminded her gravely, touching her arm. "Besides, you have nothing to worry about on that count. If a man tried to hurt you, I imagine you'd place him in intensive care, and it would serve him right."

"That's what Jennifer says." Steph's lips quirked upward slightly in amusement.

"Speaking of Jennifer, how is she doing?"

"She's doing excellent. She's married, and has two small kids of her own, and still manages to be a full-time Healer."

"See, you don't even hade to sacrifice a career for a man."

"Oh, shut up," snapped Steph. "When Alexander really wants to wed me, he'll go to the bother of convincing me himself. So, what are you doing here, anyhow, besides vexing me?"

"Seeing if you'll date me again," he teased her, and she wrinkled her nose up at him. Becoming serious once more he explained, "I'm visiting my father."

"That's right," Steph gasped. "Your dad got bitten by a snake in the Ministry of Magic itself. It's one of many funny injuries that have occurred recently, if you ask me, injuries that make me wonder― wonder if You-Know-Who has really returned."

At her words, Bill praised the Lord that at least one of his old school buddies still had a brain, because, in this case, the questioning was enough to prove that Steph was not a blind Ministry follower. "Would you be interested in fighting against him if he had returned?" he inquired, pinning her with his brown eyes.

Eyeing him closely, Steph paused for a long moment, and then shook her head. "I'm already fighting against him in my own way, Bill, by helping to heal those who are wounded by him and others like him. I don't reckon I could go out and hurt and kill people, as it violates the Healer I am at the core. I'm sorry if I sound weak and cowardly, but there you go."

"Don't feel badly." He patted her on the shoulder. "Everyone resists evil differently, and there's nothing wrong with that as long as they resist it, and everyone must answer to their own conscience, and your conscience is telling you killing is always wrong."

"Come on, Bill!" Fred interjected from the other end of the tea room. "Hurry up, or I'll tell that French girl you're giving 'Eenglish' lessons to that you're being very friendly to another woman."

"You may not have noticed just how many windows are in here for me to pitch you and your duo out of," grumbled Bill, as he waved farewell to Steph, and he and the twins went back downstairs to visit their dad.

To their relief, Mrs. Weasley had ceased her shouting, and when they returned to Mr. Weasley's ward, all was quiet.


	52. Chapter 52

Dreams and Mysteries

Dreams and Mysteries

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter. I apologize for disappointing you. However, never fear, because you can still ask for my autograph. Hey, it might be worth something in fifty years.

Reviews: To read is human, to review is divine.

Author's Note: After much debating with myself, which, incidentally, was not a pretty scene, in case you're interested in doing a similar thing yourself, and after re-reading the scene in Book 5 in the Department of Mysteries, I concluded that only five members of the Order plus Dumbledore were present there, and there's not really enough confusion to justify Bill being there, but Harry not seeing him. Therefore, I couldn't have him involved in the actual fight, unfortunately, because I really try to adhere to canon as much as humanly possible. Oh, the woes of my life. On the upside, I threw in a cute (or at least I think cute) scene between our two lovebirds, Bill and Fleur. It's nice to think they'll soon be nesting together…If you like it, I might be able to get up the next chapter this weekend, depending on how much I feel the urge to procrastinate while doing an A.P. Psych prep. Test. (Sneak Preview: It involves a proposal.)

At the moment, Bill felt as though the war, which really wasn't that important, after all, were a thousand miles away, and would never get closer to him. He would spend eternity here with Fleur, sipping chocolate milkshakes with the whipped cream still unmelted on the surface of the shake, and dotting their noses like snowflakes when they drank. He would never budge from the living room of Fleur's rented flat. He would always be curled up beside her on the sofa on this early summer's night, her head tilted against his shoulder, staring into the fire, studying the peculiar, fleeting shapes in the wood before they burned up into the night, French music that he did not understand playing soothingly in the background.

In the end, it was Fleur who broke the comfortable quiet that had settled between the pair of them. "In Southern France, we would not 'ave a fire on such a night, as it would be much too 'ot. 'Ere it is much colder."

"I don't know much about Southern France, because Louis was from the mountains of Northern France, where, believe it or not, it's chillier than it is here."

"'E probably would 'ave been able to tell you about Southern France, if you 'ad asked 'im, as Beauxbatons is located zere―"

"Ah, that would explain those white silk robes, and here I was thinking that you all were auditioning for the role of angels in the Christmas pageant," Bill grinned. More thoughtfully, he reasoned, "I suppose those light silk uniforms would provide scant protection from the raw elements of the mountains."

"Yes, our location allows us to 'ave much more attractive robes zan ze zick, black ones Hogwarts students are forced to wear all ze time, which makes zem all look as if zey are attending a large funeral," established Fleur passionately. In a more dreamy manner, she murmured, "Even ze winds in ze South were relatively mild, because we were by ze sea, and in ze spring, when all ze flowers were abloom, and ze sky was bluer even zan ze ocean, it was gorgeous, simply ze closest zing to heaven I'll see on zis earth."

"You really miss it, huh?" he inquired, shaking his head sympathetically.

"Yes." She chewed on her lower lip. "What I miss ze most is ze water. I love ze water, and I shall never grow tired of watching it sparkle with a light of its own."

"I love drinking water, not salt water," chuckled Bill. "I guess that's the byproduct of squandering so much time broiling in the Egyptian desert."

"Oh, but ze best part of ze ocean is ze salt, and 'ow it fills the air with its scent, and 'ow it traps itself in your 'air. Well, ze way ze sea if so free and mighty, and unabashed by its power is nice, too. Zat's why I love going to ze beach."

"I'm going to go out on a limb here, and suggest that you don't like sand," he responded, feeling as if he were drowning in an ocean of love, or perhaps was suffocating in a quagmire of quicksand. "Not that I blame you, mind, seeing as I detest sand, myself. It's course, irritating, and worst of all, it infects everything faster than the bubonic plague did in London."

"No, I actually like ze sand, just not as much as ze water." Fleur offered a laugh that tinkled merrily like wedding bells as she made this remark. "My friends and I used to go down to the seashore on weekends, and lie on ze sand after a swim, letting ze sun dry us. As we did so, we'd try to discover shapes in ze clouds, and try ot guess ze names of ze birds souring above us, or singing in ze distant trees."

Suddenly, she flushed, evidently humiliated that she had gotten stuck aloud in memory, and she glanced apologetically at him. "Sorry about zat. It is strange 'ow we get lost in ze slightest and stupidest of memories."

"It's a lifetime of such memories that forge us," Bill reminded her gently. "Go on. I enjoy hearing your past. In general, the past appears loads better than the present."

"Very well, zen. I shall tell you a little more, but it is not my fault if by ze end you are wishing zat my mother 'ad drowned me in ze sea I love so much." Again, the dreamy quality intruded upon Fleur's voice, as she resumed, "Not far out in ze ocean, zere was a rock island, where an ancient wizard lived in a 'ut. He used to create glass out of ze sea sand, and he would employ ze glass in turn to form vases and necklaces." Here she glanced up at him, a twisted smile etched on her lips, bidding him to share her memories, and delve into her history with her. "Zey were simply unable to be described, because zey were so beautiful. Ze nearest I can come to describing them, is to say zat zey were simply magical."

"The most lovely, the most magical things in life are always those that are impossible to describe," Bill answered, gazing deep into her amazing eyes that were seas themselves, and willing her to comprehend that his comment was meant in part to be applicable to her.

"My friends and I would swim out to ze island, where we would watch ze man make ze glass. When 'e was done, 'e allowed us to look into it. It was incredible― when you stared into ze glass, you could see ze water from which ze sand zat formed ze glass 'ad originated. In ze glass, you could spot ze ripples and flows of ze sea," Fleur murmured. "It appeared so real, and, yet, it wasn't. It was merely an optical illusion, if a pretty one."

"Sometimes, when you believe something to be true with enough conviction, it becomes real, at least to you."

"I used to zink zat if I looked too deeply into ze glass, I would lose myself in it," admitted Fleur, her eyes focusing on him in such a manner that he realized she was not talking about the glass anymore.

Abruptly, Bill felt stifled. Obviously, the planet's temperature had inexplicably risen by fifty or so degrees in the last three seconds. Also, it was just as clear that Fleur had been transfigured at the same time into a gigantic magnet, which was the reason why he was riveted to her, why he couldn't look away from her…why he didn't avert his eyes from her lips, the tender curve of her neck, her silver hair glittering in the firelight, and her eyes that cackled like the most lethal part of flames themselves. Why he bent forward and kissed her with his own fire of passion in that instant.

"You'd like to live by the ocean, then?" he inquired, rather breathlessly, when they finally ended their ardent kiss.

"Yes," she beamed, leaning her head upon his chest, and he was flooded with the heat of her upon him, and bathed in the warmth of her steady breathing against his ear. A sense of tranquility washed over him, purifying and soothing every atom of his body and soul.

"Together we'll be okay," he expressed aloud the sentiments coursing through him at the speed of light. "If we're together, we can handle anything the world chucks at us."

"I know zat." He trembled a tad when her whisper touched his vulnerable, sensitive skin like a fly, only less irksome. Silence shrouded them as they sat side-by-side until they glimpsed the first strains that heralded the rising of a blood red sun awakening a reluctant, dark, sleepy sky.

"I'd better go," Bill sighed, pushing himself off the sofa before his resolve to depart could deteriorate like bread in water. "Mum will have my flayed to within an inch of my life if she discovers I was out all night, and if she finds out that I was out all night with a women, she'll have my skinned alive. You can get an awful lot of gold for kid gloves on the current market, you know."

"I'll see you at work."

"Yeah, just think in another couple of hours, we'll be slaving away for Gringotts goblins again. You better get the coffee boiling now."

"Don't remind me," Fleur groaned as she saw him out.

When Bill snuck back into the kitchen of the Burrow, he was not delighted to spot his parents sitting at the table. A less cursory study of the room, however, suggested that he was hardly likely to be reprimanded for his tardiness, as his mother was sobbing softly into the palms of her hands, alongside an ashen Mr. Weasley, while Remus Lupin stared on helplessly.

"My babies…Harry…Ginny…Ronnie…Oh, my poor babies," stuttered Mrs. Weasley, rocking back and forth in her chair. The wails wracking her body stepped up a notch.

"What happened?" Bill was willing to bet that his tone sounded like lead, since that was what his heart consisted of at the moment. As he plopped, his knees watery and insubstantial, into a seat, he envisioned with horrible, grotesque vividness, attending a triple funeral for three beings whose lives had been cut off before they could even begin, and he fought the overpowering urge to scream in fury or agony, or possibly both. After all, he told himself, Harry and Ron had survived many things before, so why couldn't they deal with whatever had just occurred, as well? Still, he was going to hex Remus if he didn't find out what happened soon, Order member and budding friend, or not. "What happened to Ginny, Ron, and Harry? Tell me."

"It's not a story I fancy telling over and over again," Remus sighed, but nobody came to his assistance, so he was obliged to begin somewhat awkwardly, "Several hours ago, Snape contacted the headquarters of the order with his usual doe Patronus, and Sirius―" A slight tremor traveled over the man's slender frame as he tears sparkled in his eyes as he said the name, casing Bill to frown in confusion at this display of intense emotion. Within a dew seconds, Remus had swallowed, and resumed with only a hint of a wobble, "Moody, Tonks, Kingsley, and I took his message. He claimed that Harry had told him that he believed Sirius to be hostage to You-Know-Who in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries."

"But he wasn't." Bill bit his lover lip, as he considered this. "Why would Harry think he was?"

"Well, You-Know-Who is a master of Legilimency," Remus educated him dryly.

"Yeah, but that's not exactly breaking news now, is it? Though I expect that if it was, it would go unreported, anyhow. What I want to know is why You-Know-Who wanted Harry to go there."

"Only Dumbledore would know that, and he rarely shares information that he doesn't want to," the other replied. "Anyway, all of us agreed to go to the Department of Mysteries to rescue Harry and his friends. Even though Snape requested that Sirius remain behind at headquarters to explain to Dumbledore what had happened. However, Sirius did not wish to stay behind while others saved his godson and his godson's companions."

"Of course he didn't." Bill rolled his eyes at Remus' inclusion of the obvious in his tale. "Sirius has been tugging on his leach all year long― the poor bloke has been trapped in that dreadful house for months, and is never permitted out. Besides, Sirius would never do anything, even pass a dinner dish, if Snape requested it of him out of pure spite. There's a castle full of bad blood between those two." To be fair, he shrugged, and conceded, "Actually, there's bad blood between most of us Order members and Sanpe. I know that, personally, I'd never place my faith in Snape. But the bitterness between the pair of them is especially pronounced."

"Yes, yes," Remus spoke heavily, as though he were at the wake of someone he loved, "and Sirius was always reckless, always impulsive, always moving without thinking. Naturally, then, he delegated to Kreacher the task of updating Dumbeldore." Here he heaved in a ton of oxygen, before he plunged on, "Sirius, Tonks, Moody, Kingsely, and I arrived just in time to save Harry and Neville Longbottom from a knot of Death Eaters."

"What about my sister and my brother?" demanded Bill, his manner sharper, more aggressive than he had intended it to be, because he was scared out of his wits by the fact that Remus had neglected to mention either of them. In an attempt to sound less self-centered, he amended, "What about Hermione Granger? I'll wager she was there, too."

"Relax." Remus held up a hand to calm him. "They are all fine. We sent them back to Madam Promfery in the hospital wing after the battle. Ron was attacked by some weird brain things, Ginny's ankle had broken and she was Stunned, and Hermione and a girl named Luna Lovegood, or something like that, were also Stunned. They were all injured before we got there."

When he learned this, Bill emitted a massive sigh of relief. "That's all right, then. They'll be fine within a few days at most in Madam Promfery's tale. It all worked out in the end, and everyone is going to be okay."

"No, not everything is going to be okay," Remus answered softly, "because not everyone made it through the fight."

"Who?" Bill's brow knit, as he steeled himself to hear about the death of a student or an Order member, not that you could ever really prepare yourself for such things, because there was always an element of horrified surprise to a death, but you could do the best you could to cope with it, to make sure that you remained sane even while good people around you fell like gnats.

"Sirius." The word, coming from Remus' mouth, was terse. In the same clipped manner, he added, "His own cousin Bellatrix did it."

"God." For a moment, that was all Bill could say, as he rubbed a hand through his long hair without being aware of his movements. "Harry's having one hell of a time on this earth, huh? First his parents go, and then his godfather dies, as well." As he established as much, he remembered that Remus had been Sirius' school buddy, and he added, "Of course, you're probably having a hard time of it, too. I'm so sorry he died. I know words fail to be any comfort when you've lost an old friend, but there you go."

"I'll get over it somehow." Remus scrutinized the table. "That's the only way to survive a war, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Bill responded skeptically. He decided not to pursue the matter, and probably would have been unable to do so if he had desired to, because he was not sure what he would have said anyway. In all honesty, he had not been terribly close to Sirius, and he was not immune to the irony of the fact that the pureblood family who valued bloodlines above all else had extinguished itself because of its own hatred of dissenters and impurity. As he had long ago concluded, despite their motto, of "Toujours Pur", or "Always Pure," the Black family's love of each other, if one could even dub it that, had been anything, but pure; it had been coal black. It also did not escape his notice that, after months of longing to leave the house, the one time Sirius had done so, had resulted in his death. Still, he knew that Sirius had been a good man. He was funny, brave, and clever in his own way, and he had been like a father to Harry, which alone would have endeared the man to Bill.

After he had made this statement, Remus shoved himself away from the table. "I've got to go. I thought you ought to know what had happened to Ron and Ginny, that's all. I'll go now―it's late. See you all at the next meeting." As soon as the last word tripped over itself on its harried way out of his mouth, Remus fled toward the door, and departed at break-neck speed.

Once Remus had left, the three Weasleys sat in silence for awhile, just staring at each other. Finally, Molly recovered enough to demand of her son, "Why were you so late coming home?"

"Something relating to Gringotts work, Mum," Bill yawned, starting to feel drowsy now that the excitement of the evening was leaving him.

"Tell them they're working you too hard, then, next time they try to do something like that to you," Mrs. Weasley ordered, getting up. "I'm going back to sleep, if I can do that."

When she had stomped back upstairs to her bedroom, her spouse raised his eyebrow at Bill. "So, where were you really?"

"English lessons," he mumbled vaguely.

"With the French girl?"

"That's the one."

"At this hour?"

"Yep." Seeing his dad was opening his mouth to ask a question that was most likely far too personal for this hour, he remarked, "You hit the three question limit, Dad. Next time get to the point faster. I'm going to sleep for an hour, and then I'm making myself the biggest cup of black coffee this world has ever seen."


	53. Chapter 53

Disclaimer: If you think Harry Potter is mine, God help you, because I can't

Disclaimer: If you think Harry Potter is mine, God help you, because I can't.

Reviews: You know you want nothing more than to hit that button on the bottom of your screen, and provide me with feedback.

Author's Note: Hopefully, this one is a little longer than last chapter. Now that I think about it, they could almost be combined into one. Next chapter Bill will find out more about what happened in the Department of Mysteries, Fudge will be fired, Scrimgeour will come to power, and the Weasleys will hear about their newest member by marriage.

Firestones

The next morning, well, technically, a few hours later on in the same morning, Bill Weasley did something he seldom did when reading the daily batch of dung that some called _The Daily Prophet_. When he glanced at the boldface of the main article on the front page, he could not help but smile because they were about a year behind the times when they announced: **He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns, **as if Dumbledore hadn't been singing that refrain for months. As he climbed up the marble steps into Gringotts, Bill read on, the grin becoming more of a smirk: **In a brief statement last night, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned to this country and is active once more.**

"You 'ave to get up pretty early in ze morning to fool your Minister of Magic, I see," remarked Fleur, coming up beside him as he entered the main hall, and leaning on a pillar so that she could scan the article over his shoulder, an action that annoyed him whenever anyone except Fleur did it. "You'd 'ave to get up sometime before noon, I imagine."

"Oh, the horror, then I would be even more sleep deprived than I am now," he chuckled. More seriously, he reminded her, "This is a great victory for us, though, because Fudge is basically confessing publicly that he was wrong, and Dumbledore was correct, and that he was a git for prosecuting Dumbledore and Harry so much. Now people will be on their guard, and You-Know-Who will have a harder time here, I hope."

"Let's pray zat ze common people 'ave more sense than your Minister of Magic," she replied, as they both continued to read the article:

"It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord—well, you know what I mean—is alive and among us again," said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. "It is with almost equal regret the mass revolt of the dementors in Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry's employ. We believe that the dementors are currently taking orders from Lord—Thingy."

"Hurray," muttered Bill under his breath, "his psychiatrist must finally have slipped him some drugs that helped him distinguish between reality and fantasy."

"'E comes up with some clever nicknames for You-Know-Who," Fleur observed.

Beaming, Bill resumed his perusal of the article:

"We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defense that will be delivered free to all Wizarding homes within the coming month."

"Do zey really zink zat zey are fit to give even basic lessons in defense after what zey have done for ze past year?" scoffed Fleur, shaking her head rapidly, so that her silver locks whipped his cheeks. "Such egotism!"

"I don't need a copy of that handbook," the man standing beside her agreed. "I already know everything its going to contain."

"Aren't we a little full of ourselves today? What did you put in your coffee zis morning?"

"Arrogance, thanks for asking, but we're even, because you obviously put spice in yours today. However, it's not boasting when it's true, and I do already know what it's going to say. Lesson One: Should a Dark Lord come near you, or come back to life, ignore him, because if you do that he will go away..."

"Shush," she ordered, elbowing him in the ribcage. "I'm trying to read."

Obediently, he shut his mouth, and read on:

The Minister's statement was met with dismay and alarm from the Wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was "no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumors that You-Know-Who is operating against us once more."

"I 'ave given up my faith in ze common people if zey believed ze Ministry story," declared Fleur.

"Shush," he teased, utilizing her own words as weapons against her. "I'm trying to read."

This time Fleur lapsed into silence, and they continued to read:

Details of events that led to the Ministry turn-around are still hazy, though it is believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself last evening.

**Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts—**

"Delacour!" Ragnok's growl sounded loudly through the atrium, and grimacing, Fleur pivoted to face him. Marching up to them with an authority that implied he was at least twice their height, rather than about half it, the stocky goblin snarled at her, "If you are so interested in newspapers, then go apply for a job at the _Daily Prophet_ during your time off, but don't waste anymore of your work hours gawking at papers. I require you to find some files for me...this Dawson son-of-a-maggot is complaining about some investment of his going sour, and he's got the courts tangled up, and we must prove that we warned him about all the usual risks involved in investment."

As Fleur bustled off, her hair swaying behind her, to prove that Dawson was an idiotic son-of-a-maggot who had been dumb enough to invest in a precarious something of his own free will, Ragnok focused his glare on Bill, instead. "As for you, you'll find the list of vaults you should add more curses to on your desk, as usual, not in the newspaper, and I'm sure that's a piece of news in itself."

Before he could respond, Ragnok had stalked off, no doubt to bestow merriment upon countless other beings, human and goblin alike. Cursing the goblin in his mind for breaking up his pleasant morning conversation with Fleur, Bill headed off to his office, where he did indeed discover the list of jobs he was expected to complete today, and he began working steadily on the day's tasks.

That night, Bill was seated at his very crowded kitchen table with his parents, Remus, Tonks, Moody, Kingsley, Hestia Jones, Emmeline Vance, Snape, whom he wasn't delighted to see, and McGonagall, who had returned from St. Mungo's that day after recovering from the four Stunning Spells to her chest that she had heroically taken when she defended Hagrid from a Ministry assault, and who was barking at anyone who tried to "help" her, even if all they did was offer to pass her the pumpkin juice. Dumbledore was presiding over the Order meeting, as he typically did.

"The sudden and regretful death of Sirius Black has created a situation for us," Dumbledore announced gravely, once everyone was settled and had helped themselves to plates of Mrs. Weasley's cooking. "Sirius, wisely, seemed to understand that he was a mortal being who could die at anytime—"

"Ah, my opinion of Black has gone up half a notch," interjected Snape, sneering. "Now, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest, and one being the lowest, he is a negative seven in intelligence."

A handful of Order members, Bill included, glared at him, feeling he could at least pretend to respect the dead, especially the dead who had died in their cause. Honestly, if Snape had kicked the bucket on a mission, Bill would not have said something like that in the middle of a meeting.

However, Dumbledore persisted as though he had not heard a word the Potions master had uttered, "And, therefore, he had written a will, leaving everything he owned to Harry, his godson. For the boy, this is a fairly straightforward affair—"

"Someone who has reached the legal age of maturity submits a copy of the will, signed by a member of the Wizengamont to attest that it is in fact Sirius' last testament, off to the Gringotts Inheritance Office in Harry's name," Bill cut in, out of habit, because he was always bored when bank procedure was reiterated in front of him. Oddly enough, it was less dull when he did the recapping. "The Gringotts Inheritance Office grumbles about the peculiar method of human inheritance, and then adds the appropriate amount of gold to Harry's already sizeable account, minus, of course, the Inheritance Tax the Ministry places upon such transactions. No sweat. Piece of ice cream cake."

"Yes, thank you for the admirable explanation, Bill." Dumbledore nodded in confirmation. "Of course, in this case, Sirius' will also bequeaths all of his personal possessions to Harry. With most of his things, I don't foresee any trouble spots on the horizon, however, the problem arises with Number Tweleve Grimmauld Place, which Sirius, as you doubtlessly have surmised, left to his godson, which means that at the moment, we are currently without headquarters."

"Why?" asked Hestia Jones. "When I escorted the boy from his aunt and uncle's house to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, he seemed like a nice, down-to-earth teen. I'm certain he would permit us to use the house as headquarters, as long as we remembered to say 'please' and 'thank-you.'"

"It's not Harry's generosity that concerns me, Hestia," Dumbledore informed her. "Rather, it is the traditions of the Black family that pose the problem. That is, Black family tradition decrees that the ancestral house be handed down the direct line, to the next male heir with the surname 'Black.' Sirius, as some of you might be aware, was the last of the line, as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him, and both were, as well as can be determined, childless. Therefore, while Sirius' will makes it perfectly plain that he wants Harry to inherit the house, it is nevertheless possible that some enchantment on the manor ensures that it cannot be owned by anyone who is not a pureblood."

Thinking of all the curses that abounded like bees in a hive at Number Tweleve Grimmauld Place, Bill was in perfect accord with Tonks when she muttered, "If there hasn't, I'll eat my favorite hat and cloak, and they both cost me a pretty penny, mind you."

"Quite." At her comment, Dumbledore's lips quirked upward. "If we postulate that such an enchantment is in existence, then the ownership of the mansion is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius' living relatives, which would mean his charming cousin Bellatrix Lestrange."

"And murderer," pointed out Tonks with tremendous fervor, her chin stuck out. "She can't get it. The irony would be unbearable for me."

"Well, obviously, I would prefer that she didn't get it either," Dumbledore established placidly. "However, you must appreciate, Tonks, that the situation is fraught with complications, as most legal matters are, I'm afraid. Still, even assuming that the house has passed into Harry's ownership, we can't be sure that it remains Unplottable, and everything. If it is not Unplottable, Bellatrix may be dropping by for an unscheduled visit soon."

"Which means that we must abandon Number Twelve Grimmauld Place for the time being in exchange for other headquarters," concluded Moody.

"Naturally," McGonagall grumbled. "Must you think aloud, Moody?"

"Yes, as I seem to be doing all thinking for everyone in the vicinity," bristled Mad-Eye.

"Ahem." Bill turned around to find that his father had stepped in to halt the dispute. "My family and I would be perfectly willing to have the Burrow serve as the headquarters of the Order for as long as necessary, though some might find the size, um, limiting."

"Excellent, thank you. Hopefully, it will only be a temporary fix to a temporary problem. The food was delicious, Molly." As he stated as much, Dumbledore rose. "I have a matter I must attend to now― will you accompany me, Severus? I'll see you at school, Minerva."

His face more pallid and tighter than usual, Snape got to his feet, and followed Dumbledore out of the Burrow.

Bill frowned at the rest of the assembly as the two professors departed. "If you ask me, he places too much confidence in that man. I mean, even if he is on our side, something I see no evidence for―"

"Dumbledore insists that he has an ironclad reason for trusting Snape," McGonagall educated him shortly, "despite his― questionable― background."

"He has an ironclad reason for trusting everyone." Bill waved a hand in dismissal. "Anyway, as I say, even if he has sincerely converted to our cause, Dumbledore should still be careful of what he lets on to a man who spends so much time among perhaps the best Legilimens in the world. Anyone's thoughts can be ripped from them if they face such a Legilimens, I reckon. Personally, though, I think he is such a Slytherin at heart that, he's without a doubt the serpent lying buried in the grass."

"Speculation is useless," barked McGonagall, pushing herself out of her chair with a grimace at the energy it required. "Dumbledore will not hear a word against Snape, and it's pointless to talk to that man when his ears aren't open, because it's like screaming into a forceful gust of wind. Now, I'd better get back to the school."

When the meeting concluded, Bill retired to his bedroom to compose a letter to Charlie, inquiring if he had any firestones left over from some of the dragons in Romania, and, if he did, could he send them to him at once, because he needed a ring for something important. Four days later, an owl arrived bearing a deep golden band with a thumbnail sized jewel inlaid into it, and a note from Charlie:

_Dear Bill, _

_I assumed that you asked for the ring to marry that French girl, Fleur Delacour, who you wrote to me about, so I took the liberty of having the firestone I got from the Chinese Fireball pen inlaid in a golden band. (Don't worry, as long as you invite me to the wedding, I'll give you another gift.) I hope you like it, and I hope Fleur appreciates just how cool it is. On the odd chance that your girl doesn't want it, please give it to Tonks from me. _

_Wishing you the best of luck from here, _

_Charlie_

Laughing, Bill penned a thank-you note. However, the next day at lunch, when he sat in a booth with Fleur Delacour at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, the last thing he wanted to do was chuckle. In fact, he really wanted to vomit all over the tile floor, but that probably wasn't the most effective way to propose to a female.

"Fleur?" he started uneasily.

"Zat's my name still, yes." Bidding him to continue, she arched her eyebrows at him.

"I know we haven't know each other very long, and we've been dating for an even shorter time period, but I―this is going to sound really stupid, but please hear me out―for some reason, I feel as if I've known you forever. It's as though you were my other half, and I just had to go through a part of my life before we could be united."

"Go on." Fleur's eyes were getting a tad moist now, but she was grinning as she issued this order.

"All right. Um, believe it or not, that was the less difficult part." He ran a hand through his hair fretfully. Mixed emotions, he thought bitterly, did not even begin to cover how he felt at the moment. It was more like pureed emotions. Taking a deep breath, he went on, "What I'm trying to say, with very little success, is that I love you, Fleur, and I'd like to make you my bride if you'd have me."

Before she could reply, he added in a rush, "I know I'm not doing any of this right. Ideally, a man shouldn't propose to a woman in the middle of a war he's involved in, and I know I'm supposed to ask your father's permission before I ask you to marry me, but in the current situation that isn't possible, and―"

Deftly, she placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. "Hush. You sound so distressed. We live in ze twenty-first century, Bill, not in Ancient Egypt. Women marry who zey want, and zeir fathers can learn to live with it if zey love zeir daughters, and my papa loves me. It is only fair zat zey do so, as zey won't be ze ones spending zeir lives with ze man." Here she looked straight into his eyes, causing Bill to flinch. "I want to wed you, and Papa will deal with it. As for ze war, zat is just ze background to our love story, even if it is not ze prettiest of backgrounds."

"I'm lucky to be marrying a woman so wise." Bill chuckled, as he offered the jewelry box to her. "By the way, I did do one thing right: I have a ring for you, if you want it. It's not exactly a diamond ring, but still…"

Her hand trembling, Fleur accepted the proffered box, and opened it. Inside, the gemstone glittered in the light of the ice cream parlor, flashing multiple sheens: reds, blues, yellows, and greens in a kind of spiraling pattern. Tentatively, she scooped it up, and slid it onto her ring finger. Then, she rested her hand on the table, splaying it, so the new acquisition was on display. Bill felt his breath catch against his voice box on its way out. The ring was quite impressive on her, if he did say so himself.

"Zis is very nice," she approved. "Is it some sort of firestone?"

Bill grinned. "Yes, and you can tell a lot about how much somebody knows about any given topic just by listening to them. In this case, your question marks you as a person who knows a little about jewels, but not overmuch. You recognize it as a firestone, but that's only a small step into a subject."

"Enlighten me, zen."

"Somebody who didn't know anything about gems would say, 'That's nice―what kind of stone is it?' Somebody who knows a tad more will comment as you did. A person with a bit more knowledge might say, 'Is that a Chinese firestone or a Norwegian one?' You see, they understand that there is a distinction between those two, and probably suspect that it is either one or the other. Now a real expert would look at the ring I gave you, and say, 'Ah, a black Chinese firestone, very nice. Is it a crystal or a boulder matrix?' He does so, because he can tell that many specifics just by glancing at it―that it is a firestone, that it is black, and that it is from a Chinese Fireball, and that it is black. The way it's mounted, though, prevents him from seeing the back of it, so he can't see what matrix it is. It's a boulder matrix, by the way, which denotes that it is harder in nature than a crystal one. The term black refers to the background color on which the flashes shine."

"So now I am educated about gems?" Fleur inquired, rubbing her forehead as she absorbed all this new data.

"No, you aren't," Bill returned gently, "because you couldn't tell a real one from a fake one, and you don't know anything about them other than what I just explained to you. For instance, how valuable do you guess it to be?"

"Even if you 'ad found it in ze Great Swamp, it would still be valuable to me! It is my engagement ring!"

"All right, well, objectively speaking, it's worth more than a diamond of the same dimensions. And have you heard of the curse on firestones?"

"The curse?" Fleur eyed her new ring anxiously.

"Yes. Firestones are supposed to be most unlucky, but that was canard, started by diamond merchants who were losing business to firestone sellers. The only thing unlucky about them is not owning one."

"Okay, zen, I take your point," laughed Fleur. "At least, I take part of it."

"So take the rest of it." Impulsively, Bill reached out across the table, and squeezed her fingers. "We have much to learn from each other, and I can't wait to start."


	54. Chapter 54

Author's Note: For some reason, the lest two chapters have me feeling really dissatisfied with them, so please, I implore you, if you have any idea how I can improve them, submit a review, and tell me, politely, how I can do better

Author's Note: For some reason, the last two chapters have me feeling really dissatisfied with them, so please, I implore you, if you have any idea how I can improve them, submit a review, and tell me, politely, how I can do better. You won't hurt my feelings, or anything, because I also feel that something is lacking, but I just can't identify what, so I can't remedy it. Hopefully, this chapter will work out better.

As for the spelling mistakes, I tried to be more careful this time around. I will go back and edit the earlier chapters later, because once I start editing, I will probably stop updating for awhile, so I think, on a whole, it is best if I leave it and then come back to it later, unless there is some mistake that you want to point out in particular to me, in which case I will correct it, because it is very easy to do if I know where it is. Sorry about the spelling. I should try to get into the habit of not relying on spell-check now, because my guidance counselor just told me about this girl who spelled "coach", rather than "couch" throughout her whole application essay, and, needless to say, she wasn't admitted. (By the way, I'll also go back and add the bars between the Author's Notes and the body of the story when I edit, for the reviewer who requested that I do so.)

On the subject of Bill's Patronus, I just made it up myself, but it seems to fit well enough, if you ask me. If you really hate it, and have a better idea, share it with me. As for everyone's reactions to Bill's proposal, I based it on what I see in Book 6. Once again, if you disagree with my interpretation, and you have some element of the text that you feel suggests that someone would react in a different manner, please tell me, but I think I did okay with everyone's reactions.

Reviews: As always, let me know what you think about my story, and I'll take the time to reply.

Disclaimer: Last time I checked, J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter novels, not me, but I could be wrong.

--

It was three evenings after Ron and Ginny had returned home from Hogwarts, and Bill was helping his little sister unpack her trunk, because already Mrs. Weasley was exasperated with seeing the luggage resting untouched in her two youngest children's bedrooms. Ginny had her favorite band, the Weird Sisters, singing in the background, as they placed folded robes in her dresser.

"So, how's your ankle faring?" Bill asked after they had covered all the basics of small talk.

"It's fine, thanks for asking," his sibling informed him briskly. "Madam Promfery mended it in a trice, and I've certainly sustained worse wounds from the dreadful duo."

"That's true. I suppose being under constant assault from the terror twins is an occupational hazard of being a Weasley," Bill grinned. Sobering, he inquired, "And you're doing all right even though you were Stunned?"

'If Professor McGonagall can withstand four Stunning Spells straight to her chest when she is no longer twenty, or fifty, for that matter, then I can certainly deal with one of them in the vigor of my adolescence." As she established as much, Ginny glared at him for doubting her endurance in the first place.

"I know you can handle anything. That's why I nicknamed you tigress and lioness," he teased her. At this, Ginny relented, smiling wryly, and he took advantage of the opportunity to press on, "So, little sister, questioning minds want to know what exactly happened the night that you, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville Longbottom, and that Lovegood girl broke into the Department of Mysteries."

"That's what everyone wants to hear about these days." The teenage girl's eyes were menacing slits, as she made this caustic observation.

"Can you blame a concerned older brother for his curiosity?" Bill replied, all innocence, as he transferred several blouses from Ginny's baggage to her dresser drawer.

"Yes," Ginny educated him crisply. "Still, I realize that you're not going to leave me alone until I've told you everything I know about the Department of Mysteries affair. Anyway, it all started when Luna and I were passing an unused classroom after Charms, and we heard voices raised in argument. When we identified one of the shouters as Harry, and the other participants as Ron and Hermione, we decided to enter, and find out what had incited Harry's ire once again."

"And what had?" Bill questioned, arching his eyebrows, because he was intrigued.

"That's what I asked him when I walked in, and he was a total git to me, until Hermione told him and Ron that Luna and I could be of use, because they needed to establish if Sirius was not at Twelve Grimmauld Place, since Harry apparently had a vision in which he was in danger in London."

"If only he had heeded her," groaned Bill, rubbing his temples. If Harry had listened to her, Sirius might not have died...Of course, Harry probably thought the same thing every morning when he woke up and felt the renewed pang of his godfather's absence from the earth.

"He did- in the end." Ginny sounded bewildered by her brother's remark. "He agreed to utilize Umbridge's fire to attempt to contact Sirius, and to employ Luna and I as lookouts."

"What?" Bill sputtered incredulously at this juncture. "Did you lot take an extra dose of insanity and stupidity with your cereal? You were seriously going to use the lair of the enemy to communicate with the organization that Umbridge would most love to exterminate? Lord, and here I was thinking Hermione was intelligent..."

"For your edification, it was the only fire in the whole castle that was not under perpetual Ministry scrutiny, and Umbridge and her blasted Inquisitorial Squad would have opened up any owl we sent, if we had even had the time necessary to do so," retorted his comrade. "There was no other way we could communicate with headquarters—"

"This will no doubt send you into cardiac arrest, lioness, but Professors McGonagall, and, for argument's sake, Snape, are members of the Order of the Phoenix, and every time they wish to contact someone at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, they don't devise a scheme to break into Umbridge's office, because then even that metal-brained woman would eventually get suspicious. No, they use this to speak to fellow Order members, instead." While he offered this explanation, Bill withdrew his wand from the inside of his robes, flicked it lazily, and a sphinx appeared before them. "I trust you are aware of what it is."

"A Patronus." Ginny's gasp told him that she comprehended.

"Exactly," confirmed Bill. "Now, tell me how you effected your break-in to Umbridge's study, and how successful it was."

"My story would go loads faster if I wasn't constantly interrupted by someone," she mumbled. 'Well, after Harry agreed to make contact with Sirius via Umbridge's fireplace, Ron went off to find the obese toad and inform her that Peeves had banged up the Transfiguration wing, Harry retreated to his dorm to don his Invisibility Cloak, and Luna and I stood on either end of Umbridge's hall, screaming at everybody not to go down there, because some moron had sent off a ton of Garroting Gas."

"How'd it go?" he demanded when Ginny lapsed into silence.

"Not as well as we'd hoped, but better than it could have ended up, I reckon." For a few seconds, she bit her lip pensively, before she resumed, "Harry managed to speak with Kreacher, who told him that Sirius had gone to the Department of Mysteries, with Hermione standing guard. However, Umbridge had someone set Stealth Sensoring Spells on her office after Lee Jordan placed two nifflers in there and they attacked her, which must have alerted her of the security breach. She caught Ron, because Peeves was wrecking havoc in another wing when he panted his story to her, and her Inquisitorial Squad captured Luna and I, since we were telling everyone about the Garroting Gas. They also took Neville, as he tried to prevent them from taking me..."

She trailed off, staring into space, and Bill patted her shoulder. "Go on, I'm listening, tigress."

"That complete cow tried to force Harry to confess to her whom he had been conversing with by Veritaserum!" exploded Ginny, her eyes snapping in her wrath. "But Snape explained to the half-wit that he was out as she had squandered the last bottle interrogating Harry in the past, and that it would take him at least a month to concoct more."

"I'll bet Umbridge was thrilled with that update," Bill commented, his mouth twisting.

'She flew off the handle--she snapped at Snape that he was on probation," smirked Ginny. The snicker quickly faded, though. "Harry attempted to fill Snape in on what was happening as best he could with Umbridge, but he didn't understand, because all the grease in his hair must have migrated into his head as well, or, perhaps, because he was being deliberately obtuse."

"He understood. He told Sirius, Remus, Kingsley, Moody, and Tonks as soon as he could. That's how they arrived in the Department of Mysteries in time to save you guys."

"Oh, well, anyhow, Umbridge was going to use the Cruciatus Curse on Harry—"

Here Bill interjected to wish that the woman they discussed would spend her afterlife roasting in an inferno.

"But Hermione stepped in, and tricked the idiot into accompanying her and Harry into the Forbidden Forest, where she ran afoul of a herd of centaurs, because she called them 'filthy halfbreeds'—"

"The bigot should absolutely employ such terms when dealing with the goblins, as well," Bill chortled, imagining how the centaurs would respond to this sort of insult. One word came to mind: Crossbows. "They'd take it even more kindly than the centaurs did, I'm sure."

His sister paid this no mind. "The centaurs did not appreciate this, so they rode off with her, and they were going to capture Harry and Hermione, too, but they were unable to do so, because Grawp, Hagrid's giant half-brother, scattered them. While they were in the Forest, Ron, Neville, Luna, and I Stunned, Disarmed, jinxed, and hexed our captors, before we raced off to join them in the woods."

After that, there was another brief pause, before Ginny continued, "Then we had a row, because noble Harry didn't want Neville, Luna, and I to travel to the Department of Mysteries with him, Ron, and Hermione, and we wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. So, in the end, we rode Hagrid's thestrals to the Ministry, where Harry got us in through the visitor entrance. We followed him into the basement, and through a door into a black, circular chamber with loads of identical doors leading off it. Harry told us to try the doors until he recognized the room from his dream. After two attempts, we found it, and, in a short time, we had arrived in a cathedral-like room whose rows were filled with dusty glass orbs. We followed Harry to row ninety-seven, because that's where Sirius was held hostage in his dream, ready to attack and to defend...Yet, when we reached row ninety-seven, nobody was there."

Chewing on her lower lip, Ginny snatched her hairbrush off her nightstand, and ran her fingers through the spikes, the sound grating in the taut atmosphere. Finally, she settled on the words to continue with her story.

"We discovered something else there--Ron spotted a tablet with Harry and You-Know-Who's names on it for some bizarre reason none of us comprehended. Intrigued, Harry touched the sphere above it, although Hermione and Neville screamed at him not to. The instant his hand clasped about it, Death Eaters swarmed us, blocking our exits, and commanding Harry to hand over the orb to them...We were just teenagers, and they were adults, and we were outnumbered by those demons by two to one, at least, but we were not afraid, because we knew what we had to do, and only we could do it."

Water began to pool in Ginny's fierce eyes, and her brother stroked her hair, wishing fervently that he could soothe away her every fret, and promise her that her world was safe, but recognizing that was impossible to do.

"Despite the odds, we did not want to give the Death Eaters what they desired, especially after we found out that You-Know-Who had manipulated Harry into coming to the Department of Mysteries to grab the orb by sending him the Sirius dream or whatever, so Harry refused to obey. We all raised our wands, prepared--prepared to die, if we had to. Bellatrix Lestrange, that evil maniac, determined that we required more persuasion." Even as sobs wracked her being, fury laced Ginny's tone. "A boulder-sized and rock-headed Death Eater thug put out his hand to grab me, so Bellatrix could torture me, because--because I was the smallest, but the others closed in around me, and Harry declared that the Death Eaters would smash the orb they wanted if they assailed any of us. For awhile, that held them in check, but then Bellatrix was infuriated when Harry referred to You-Know-Who by his name, and when he accused You-Know-Who of being a half-blood, and she cast a Stunning Spell at Harry. However, Lucius Malfoy deflected it, and it hit an orb, which began speaking in an eerie voice.

"At this point, Harry had an epiphany, and he ordered us to break the shelves, which bore the spheres to distract our opponents. On his command, we all cast the Reductor Curse, and our spells radiated out in five divergent directions, and the shelves around us toppled, destroying the spheres, so that a thousand distant voices from the past flooded the chamber. The orbs shattered on our heads, as we charged toward the door, the Death Eaters on our heels. In the confusion, Ron, Luna, and I were seperated from the other three, and we found ourselves in a room that was very different from the one we had entered from.

"It was so weird, Bill, full of planets, and we were floating through space, and four Death Eaters were on our heels the entire time. As we neared Pluto, one of the nutcases snatched my foot, and I couldn't escape from his clutches. Luckily, Luna used the Reductor Curse to blow up Pluto in his face, so that he had to relinquish his grasp on me. Still, my ankle was broken, and I knew it, because I heard it crack. And Ron was hit with a spell that addled his mind, so that he was amused by the most random stuff, like the planet Uranus."

As Ginny described this, it took considerable effort on Bill's part to remember that his two youngest siblings were perfectly fine now, and that all this was in the past.

"Eventually, we got out of the room, and met up with Harry, Hermione, and Neville. Hermione had been Stunned by a Death Eater, and Neville was tottering about with her on his shoulders. Not long after we were reunited, a knot of Death Eaters were besieging us again, and Luna was Stunned, and Ron was Summoning a sort of brain mess in a tank to him, fascinated by it, because his own brain was not functioning right."

Agony was etched on Ginny's pale face as she gazed at her sibling, and Bill felt her anguish sear him. Everything she had detailed were events that she should never have to witness, nevertheless before she was in her fifth-year at school.

"Bill, the brains were going to strangle him, and he's my brother, so I couldn't let that happen. I was going to rescue him, but I remained motionless, due to my cursed ankle, a second too long, and a Death Eater Stunned me. That's the last thing I remember for awhile."

"Oh, Ginny!" Bill could not invent a more articulate response, as he hugged her, and she buried her head in his chest, staining his robes with her tears. "It's all right. Ron ended up okay, and so did you."

"You don't have to tell me that. Ron's annoying nature ensures that I'll never forget his presence." Wearing a blazing expression that was at odds with the salty rivulets streaming down her cheeks, Ginny pushed herself away from him, refusing his comfort, or anyone else's. "I didn't regain consciousness until after the Order members and Dumbledore arrived, and Harry was thundering past me, calling for Bellatrix to come out, so he could--could avenge Sirius." The last clause emerged in a whisper.

"Heavens, lioness," Bill murmured, shaking his head in awe. "You lot really went through the mill. It's a pity most adults don't have half the courage the six of you do. If they did, You-Know-Who would be on the run."

"Can we join the Order, then?" suggested Ginny, her tone so sweet that her companion was surprised that it didn't melt in her mouth.

"You're barking up the wring tree, for, if I had my way, this would be your last scrape with death. I'm supposed to shield you, and if you are on the front lines of a Wizarding War, I'll fell like an utter failure."

"I wouldn't want to come between you and your ego, your only love," she mocked, a playful glint in her eyes now.

Before he could counter, their mum hollered to the house as a unit, "Dinner! Come down this instant, or don't eat anything!"

"Damn!" cursed Ginny. "We've hardly unpacked anything."

It was a rare night in that Fred and George were dining with them, which was why Bill had concluded that tonight would be the opportune moment to reveal his secret that there would be a new Weasley by marriage soon. At any rate, it was as good, and as bad, as any other time would be, he figured.

"Since the Wizarding world has just undergone a massive change by wisely kicking Fudge out of office, and not so wisely promoting Scrimgeour to the post," he observed casually, spearing a sausage with a fork, during a moment of relative quiet, "I think that we should undergo some healthy changes of our own in this family, as well."

"If you'd like to paint your bedroom a new color, you have my permission to do so, as long as you do it by yourself, and clean up afterward," replied Mr. Weasley.

"That's very kind of you, Dad, but I wasn't talking about interior decorating. I was actually referring to marriage." Seeing that everyone was staring at him as if he had sprouted three more heads, he clarified, "I proposed to a woman, and she accepted my offer, and so we're getting married."

"What?" blinked an astounded Mr. Weasley, speaking for all the other Weasleys present at the table, if their wide eyes, and gaping jaws were a reliable indication.

"We're going to be wed," Bill repeated, deciding to interpret the question literally, as that was the least complicated course of action. "That's what people do when they love each other, and want to start a family of their own together, you see."

"And whom are you planning to start your family with?" his father asked dryly. "That French girl you've been giving English lessons to?"

As Fred and George leered at the mention of Fleur, Mrs. Weasley laughed, a forced, brittle laugh that contained no trace of mirth. "Don't be silly, Arthur. Bill is just being a gentleman, and helping a foreigner learn our language. Obviously, he has hooked up with Jennifer, Stephanie, Heather, or one of his other school girlfriends."

"Actually, Mum, I'm marrying that French girl. Her name is Fleur Delacour."

Upon hearing Fleur's name, Ron dropped his fork onto his dish with a clatter, wearing a lovestruck expression, the twins jeered at him, and Mrs. Weasley crossed her arms over her chest, tutting. Yet, it was Ginny's reaction that troubled Bill the most. Her face was inscrutable as she struggled to absorb this revelation, and when she finally did, she jumped to her feet as though she had just sat down on a porcupine.

"You can't get married!" she protested adamantly, stomping up the stairs, the sounds of her feet smacking the floor punctuating every word. "I won't let you! That will completely ruin everything, don't you get it?"

"Well, that went swell," Bill mumbled, shaking his head. Turning to face his parents, he asked, "May I invite Fleur over for awhile to meet the rest of the family? You'll love her, I promise. I do."

"I suppose she might as well come, so that I can meet the girl you're going to wed before you walk down the aisle with her," snarled his mum. "Although, it's beyond me why you would ask our permission prior to inviting her, when you felt no need to tell us that you were about to propose to a French girl whom we've never met."

"Mum," he started, but he was chopped off mid-sentence when his mother leapt to her feet, and stalked up the steps in Ginny's wake. Once she had disappeared, Bill looked at his family members that remained at the dinner table. Ron's fork was stuck mid-motion, and his face was blank, implying that he had not gotten over his crush on Fleur, which was yet another unforeseen complication. Apparently, he had been stumbling about half-blind when he had proposed to Fleur.

"Well, congratulations, bro," Fred smiled. "Remember that Weasley Wizard Wheezes is perfectly willing to decorate for nuptial ceremonies—"

"Special discounts for family members," his twin contributed.

"One Knut off the total cost," finished Fred.

"Well, that's an awesome bargain," Bill chuckled, despite himself. "Unfortunately, the discount definitely won't offset the expenses incurred if half our guests blow up thanks to you two."

"Nobody would explode," protested Fred and George in unison.

"The answer remains no way, even if hell suddenly freezes over," Bill educated them firmly.

"Bad luck, Fred," shrugged George. Addressing Bill, he added, "But be sure to remind your fiancee that we have a whole host of new Wonder Witch products, including love potions—"

"She's getting married, so she doesn't need love potions."

"Even if she's not interested in the love potions, though she very well might be, there's always the pimple remover, and the—"

"Right, I'll tell her to visit your store if she gets an overpowering urge to do her cosmetic shopping in a prank shop," he conceded, recognizing that the dreadful duo would not give up their struggle until they won some type of victory.

"Fair enough," allowed George. "You see, we're trying to save money on advertising."


	55. Chapter 55

Disclaimer: Harry Potter in none of its numerous manifestations is my property

Disclaimer: Harry Potter in none of its numerous manifestations is my property.

Reviews: Please feel free to submit one if you have the time.

Author's Note: If you feel I should pump the rating up to "T" just let me know. I may have been desensitized to some of the jests, because I sat through a twenty minute discussion on what Freud would say about marriage ceremonies in my A.P. Psychology class today, so you can imagine some of the things I heard. If you can't, say so in a review, and I'll explain if I have to as long as you are over, say, 13.

--

Tangled Hearts

When Bill had initially invited Fleur to spend the time before their nuptials with his family, she was excited at the prospect of meeting them, since he had told her so much about them. However, her delight quickly transformed to unease, and she invested an increasing amount of time demanding of him anxiously, "What if zey don't like me?"

"They'll love you," he'd always reassure her, kissing her cheek. "I do."

Normally, this was enough to pacify her, but when they Apparated into the Burrow garden, she persisted, "And if zey don't?"

"I'll still love you, and marry you no matter what they say," he vowed. "Though I hope that they take an immediate liking to you, as it will make everything so much less complicated."

"I 'ope zat zey like me, as well," whispered Fleur so softly that he almost did not hear, as he opened the door for her, and they stepped inside. As the couple entered her domain, Mrs. Weasley looked up from her cooking, and her daughter scowled at the table, abruptly going silent, when she had been chatting animatedly with her mum only seconds before. Bill pondered briefly if they had been commiserating about Fleur, and then sent up a quick prayer to God, on the off-chance that he was listening, that they were not.

"Hello," Mrs. Weasley addressed her future daughter-in-law without taking so much as a single step away from the stove to greet her. "You must be Bill's fiancée. It's nice to meet you at last, although I admit that it would have been infinitely nicer to have met you before you and my son were engaged. That's how we do it here in England, in case you aren't aware, and for your future reference― we get acquainted with the would-be family by marriage prior to betrothal. Of course, you might not know, because, undoubtedly, things are― different― where you come from."

"Mum, I proposed to her, remember, not the other way around," Bill interjected before Fleur could recover enough from this surprise assault to deflect it. "Besides, her family knows as little about me as you know about her―"

"Which doubtlessly means that we're all in for some revelations, and probably all of them unpleasant," interrupted his mother irritably. Glaring over her shoulder at Fleur, she added, "I put you in Percy's old bedroom. Bill will show you which one it is, as I don't have the time to right now. In fact, we probably won't see much of each other, since you'll be busy at work, and I'll be occupied with the housework, which you'll be shocked to learn, is something a married woman has to contend with quite a lot of, even if she is one of these modern businesspeople."

As soon as Mrs. Weasley finished expressing her rather unwelcoming sentiments, Ginny sighed gustily in relief. "Ah, thank heavens that I don't have to room with the French lady."

Bill glowered at her, which was something he seldom did, and began to escort a slightly flushed Fleur from the kitchen, wishing that his mother and Ginny could have been just a tad warmer than the Arctic ice caps with his bride-to-be. Honestly, it wasn't as though he was asking for them to rid the world of You-Know-Who. Rather, he was just wishing that they would treat Fleur decently.

"Nothing personal, of course." Ginny offered Fleur a patently fake smile that was more of a jeer, implying that her remark had been extremely personal. "I just like having my own personal space, and I loathe it when someone intrudes upon my territory."

"I understand zat." Fleur acted as if she could not detect the insult and the threat implicit in the teenager's tone and words. However, Bill noticed that the scarlet splotches on her cheeks had grown in diameter, and he steered her out of this nest of vipers at lightning speed.

As they made their way up the winding staircase, Ron stuck his head out of his bedroom door, and gaped at Fleur, indicating that he had never seen a female human in his lifetime. Then, he mumbled a hasty "hi," and ducked his maroon face back inside his room so rapidly that he banged his head against the frame.

"At least 'e talks to me," noted Fleur, her manner glum. Indeed, once they arrived in Percy's room, which Molly had apparently only recently cleaned out, and obviously felt no obligation to decorate with as much as a rose or a lily, Fleur burst out, "Zey 'ate me, Bill! I knew zey would!"

"They don't hate you." Bill kissed the tender back of her neck in reassurance as he placed her trunk on the bedroom floor with a dull thud, and a wave of his wand. "They're only angry at me, because I didn't really talk to them about proposing to you until you'd already accepted my offer. Therefore, their dislike of you at moment is entirely my fault."

"And what if zey never get over zeir 'atred of me?"

"Then I'll cross that hurdle when we reach it, but for now there is no cause to fret," he replied as they started unpacking her belongings. "At the moment, all I request of you is that you be yourself with them, and eventually they'll have to come to love you, as I do."

"I will do my best," promised Fleur, her lips pursed together grimly.

However, a week later at dinner with the rest of his family, Bill discovered that Fleur's best efforts to endear herself to his family were all falling flat on their faces. Mrs. Weasley commented, "Ginny, please make certain that your room is tidy, because Hermione will be arriving between one and two tomorrow afternoon, and I don't want her to be greeted with a mess."

Bill scowled at this, because it was clear as crystal to anyone who did not possess an empty skull that his mum had gone to greater pains to prepare for Hermione Granger's visit than she had for the woman who was going to wed her eldest child in a few months. The way Fleur's determined smile slipped several notches attested to the fact that she comprehended this fact. Still, all she said was, "Is 'Ermione Granger coming to stay 'ere, zen?"

"No, I'm merely going to make sure that my room is squeaky-mouse clean on the off-chance that she might drop by sometime next afternoon," Ginny educated her, her tone pure acid. "That sounds awfully rational and like a blast to you, doesn't it? Maybe you'll want to join me for some quality sister-sister bonding time?"

"Oh, and Ron," Mrs. Weasley went on, ignoring this whole scene, "please tidy up the twins' room before Harry comes."

"'Arry is coming, too?" Fleur seemed far more delighted with this update.

At this, Ginny snorted into her meal, and Mrs. Weasley folded her arms, and deliberately turned her back upon the younger woman. Only Bill's father demonstrated any sympathy, when he responded in a perfectly civil voice, which was the best Fleur could hope for, "Yes, he's going to arrive here next Friday, according to Dumbledore."

"Zat's wonderful."

"Yeah, some guests are loads better than others," Ginny contributed loftily, gazing at Fleur in a nettling fashion out of the corner of her eyes.

"I couldn't agree more," confirmed her mum, also eyeing Fleur.

"Thank you," Bill intervened shortly. "Ginny, please pass me that chicken salad. It's delicious, and I would love to have some more of it."

"Here you go, then." Ginny pushed the bowl across the table to him. "By the way, you might want to give some to your Phlegm, since she hasn't had any of it yet, and I suspect it is because she can't figure out how to scoop it out of the dish without your assistance. I mean, some tasks are just too difficult for us delicate ladies to accomplish without our men."

"A fascinating theory," Bill stated coldly, dumping a mound of chicken salad onto his platter, and making a mental note to confront his sister and his mother, who was grinning at her daughter's taunt, about how they behaved toward Fleur. Really, enough was enough. "Though I expect that a more likely explanation is that she is allergic to the mayonnaise in it."

"Whatever," Ginny mumbled, and the supper resumed somewhat awkwardly.

"Why didn't you tell me that they were treating you like rubbish earlier?" Bill charged Fleur later that evening when they were reclining on her bed, trying to decide what wedding invitations they wanted to purchase.

"It wasn't important. You 'ave enough on your plate at ze moment without troubling yourself with zat."

"What?" Bill stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. "You're very important to me, and I won't allow anyone, even my family― no, especially my family― to treat you disrespectfully. Family members are intended to be kind to each other, and you're part of our family now."

"You are making too much of zis." Gently, Fleur reached out, wrapped her fingers about his, and squeezed them, as she kissed his cheek. "It is natural for a mother to dislike her daughter-in-law, because she is stealing 'er son away, and she is afraid zat ze new woman will not care for 'er son as well as she 'ad. I 'ave to 'andle zis myself. Zat's 'ow it 'as always been done."

"Aren't you the one who's always arguing that these dating and marriage stereotypes and rituals are worth less than dung?" he arched his eyebrows are her. "Why aren't they in this case? Besides, I thought it was the fathers who wanted nothing more than to rip the guts out of the son-in-law, because the son-in-law wishes to sleep with his baby girl."

"Fathers only want to 'ave one part of zeir son-in-laws removed," she teased him, kicking his ankle with her foot.

"The most important part, may I add."

"It is true, zen, zat guys 'ave only one thing on zeir minds."

"Of course we do." Calmly, Bill shrugged, unfazed by the accusation. "Where would we fit anything else? Our heads don't accommodate as much data as female ones do."

"If you 'ave only one thing on your pea-sized mind, zen I shall make ze choice about ze invitations." Fleur stuck up her nose haughtily. "I 'ave decided on ze blue script over ze pink background."

"Why not the white background?"

"Because white is boring, and typical, whereas pink is not."

"Fine," he conceded. "You can go place the order for the cards tomorrow, and I'll spend some quality time with my much neglected mother and sister, and then we'll meet for lunch in London, and head over to Florean's for ice cream afterwards."

Fleur scrutinized him for a moment, and then commanded, "When you speak with Ginny, tell 'er zat I 'ave decided zat she and Gabrielle will be my only bridesmaids."

"Are you sure?" Bill asked. "After the way she's been treating you and all?"

"I am positive. She is your sister, and you are very close to 'er, which means zat she must 'ave a major role in your wedding ceremony. Zat will 'elp convince 'er zat she is not losing you to me."

"One day Ginny will realize what a saint you are."

"I don't want to be a saint. Zey tend to die young in very unpleasant fashions," laughed Fleur. More seriously, she murmured, "I 'ave to choose the color for zem to wear. Pink is so flattering on Gabrielle…but, of course, it would look absolutely 'orrible with Ginny's 'air."

"We'll work something out."

"You're right." With that, Fleur progressed to the next issue. "So, who will be your best man?"

"Charlie," Bill declared at once.

"And if he says no?" pressed the woman cuddled against him.

"Then he's dumb enough to refuse an opportunity for free drinks, and I'll get Louis to do it by bribing him with French food catered by order of a French bride."

"Zat's settled zen," she chuckled, and they both agreed that they had dealt with enough marriage crises at the moment.

The following morning after a breakfast of sausage and fried eggs, Bill volunteered to assist his mother in cleaning up the dishes. As they started to wash them, he observed casually, "Mum, I've been meaning to discuss something with you."

"What?" Mrs. Weasley's eyes contracted.

"Fleur."

"I have nothing whatsoever to say about her." There was an ugly twist to Bill's mum's lip as she voiced this.

"That's a pity, because I happen to have an awful lot to say about her, actually, and most of it pertains to your treatment of her." For a few seconds, Bill paused, taking several deep inhales to compose himself before he continued, "Mum, I have witnessed the way you act toward Fleur, and I can't tolerate it anymore. I love her, and it hurts me to see you wounding her."

"Maybe you should have considered my feelings before you rushed into this engagement," snapped Mrs. Weasley.

"Excuse me, but I didn't rush into this," Bill informed her crisply. "Fleur and I have been spending a good deal of our time together for a year now―"

"A year?" scoffed Mrs. Weasley. "A year is not a very long time, I'll have you know. Of course, to someone who runs through girlfriends faster than a pack of Drubbles Best Blowing Gum, it might seem that way, although I assure you that's not the case, dear."

"Now you're contradicting yourself," Bill protested, his temper flaring. "You're complaining about my lack of constancy with women, while at the same time accusing me of hurrying into the ultimate commitment with the woman whom I love, and who loves me. Have it either way, but you can't have it both ways."

"Yes, I can for your information, William, because the speed with which you proposed to that woman is yet another demonstration of why you are still unready for marriage."

"When will I be ready for marriage, then?" Bill inquired sarcastically. "Oh, never mind, I know. When the priest comes to perform the last rites on me, he can also wed me to Fleur at the same time. Unless, she has already kicked the bucket, that is, in which case we'll have to get married in heaven, instead."

"You'll be ready for marriage when you recognize that you are attracted by that girl's beauty and her Veela charms," retorted his mother, as the plates remained forgotten in the sink. "That's all your alleged immense love boils down to."

"Don't do this, Mum!"

"Do what?" she fired back. "Be your parent? Tell you that you're about to make the hugest mistake of your life if you don't open your eyes and look at the path you're headed down? Protect you from being wounded in love? Keep you from falling in love with a woman like her, and then being left empty-handed?"

"No, I want you to stop doing what you just did! I want you to stop diminishing my love, because it's just as complex as anything you've ever felt, and you've no right to do so," he established vehemently. "You've no right to judge my love for anyone else, especially when you refuse to open up your own eyes, or your own heart, and when you insist upon denying the truth that is staring you in the face!"

"I have no right?" sputtered his mother. Then, she recovered herself. "I am your parent, and I am obliged to inform you that the girl has you bewitched―"

"A brilliant conspiracy theory, Mum, but the only tiny pinhole in it is that I am a Curse-Breaker, who is trained to spot hexes from a kilometer off, and I would have noticed if she had done so." He could not keep the condescension inherent in this remark out of his voice, he just could not. It required more willpower than he possessed in his current state.

"Whether or not you are wrapped around her pinky finger, you are still much too young to be married," Mrs. Weasley concluded implacably.

"Oh, that's really rich coming from someone who was wed to her school sweetheart right after she graduated, whereas I went out and worked in a foreign country for several years before I finally decided to settle down. If I'm too young, then you were in infancy when you married Dad." Even as he asserted as much, Bill understood that it was a low blow, but the situation had forced him to say it aloud.

"Your father and I were made for each other, while you and that French girl have absolutely nothing in common!" his mum shrilled lividly, her face the same hue as her hair. "Nothing!"

"I should have known that when you get married at a young age, it's because you were perfect for each other, but that when everyone else does it, they're being far too impulsive."

Finally, this was enough for Mrs. Weasley. Blushed with wrath, she threw down her sponge, and stalked upstairs, shouting that he could contend with the dishes all by himself, as he ought to get used to housekeeping now. She had barely left when her spouse descended the stairs, and joined Bill in the kitchen.

"I couldn't help but overhearing," Mr. Weasley began, as he picked up a towel to dry the wet dishes.

"Yeah, I imagine you couldn't, since everyone on the planet probably overhead," grumbled Bill, handing his dad several saucers he had just cleaned. "The Martians might have had a little difficulty at times, though, I'm afraid, so she'll need to learn more projection techniques."

"Anyway, you could attempt to look at it from her perspective," resumed his father. "Envision how hard it is to hear that your son is engaged to some young lady that you have never met, and he hasn't even broached the topic with you."

"I would respect the fact that it was his decision, Dad," Bill answered swiftly. "However, if it were my daughter, that would be an entirely different matter, for I would be wondering how on earth she escaped from her nunnery."

"Nobody is denying that it's your choice," Mr. Weasley sighed. "It's just― we wish you had confided in us."

"Let me guess, you don't care for Fleur, either."

"I neither like nor dislike Fleur. Besides, we're not discussing her right now; we're talking about you." There was a moment's pause, as Mr. Weasley contemplated what to say next, and then, "Getting married is one of the most important things a person does in his or her life, and people like to hear when someone they love is considering marrying someone. It hurts your family when they realize that you didn't mention that you were about to propose to a woman to any of them."

"I mentioned it to Charlie." Bill hated the defensive quality in his voice now. "I did so when I asked him to get his hands on a firestone for Fleur's engagement ring."

"Ah, yes, it seems Charlie is also an exceptional being to seek career advice from," noted Mr. Weasley wryly, "as are you." Deciding not to reply to this, Bill shoved several more platters into his father's hands. The small smile fading from his face, the man explained, "You are an incredibly secretive and independent person, Bill, and those aren't bed attributes, even in conjunction with each other, but your mum and I love you."

"I never doubted that, Dad." The bald statement was an accurate one, for he had no recollection of questioning either of his parents' love for him.

"I'm happy to hear it, but my main point is that your mum and I are here to guide you, but we can't do that if you don't let us in. Face it, this is the second time you've made a major decision in your life, and have not spoken to us about it."

"I wasn't aware that was a crime," contested Bill, "and, if we're talking about my career choice, I enjoy my job, and I had an even greater time in Egypt, and the reason I did not confide in Mum was because I knew that she would want me to slave away in the Ministry of Magic when that's the last thing I want to do. No offense intended, Dad."

"So, why didn't you speak with us this time?" his father demanded.

"Because I wasn't aware that the people I love would force me to essentially choose between them and the love of my life," Bill confessed after a few seconds of thought. "Stupid me, I took for granted that the beings I care for the most would love me enough to be pleased that I had finally met a woman I wanted to start a family with. Naïve me, I believed that the people whom we love more than anything will automatically like each other, or at least pretend to do so for the sake of someone they care about." As he finished this speech, he handed the last dishes to Mr. Weasley, and then turned away to go upstairs to conference with his sister. "Now I see that is not the case."

With that, he headed up the steps, and knocked on Ginny's door. After a brief wait, she opened it, and stood before him in her jeans and tank top, her hair still sleek and supple like a water creature's after her morning shower. She nodded for him to come in without interrupting her steady combing of her tresses.

"I want to talk to you, lioness," he commented, sitting down next to her on her bed.

"That's unusual," she smirked. "Why aren't you spending time with―"

"With Phlegm?" suggested Bill a little frostily.

To his relief, Ginny had enough decency to appear abashed. "You weren't supposed to know that I called her that."

"You slipped at the table last night, and called her my Phlegm," he educated her, not sure whether to be angry or amused, and compromising by maintaining an inscrutable visage. "However, I didn't need to hear that to determine that you have been treating her horribly."

"It's not my fault that she is so aggravating," exploded Ginny, whirling on him. "Sometime, you should hear the way she talks to me as if I'm like three years old―"

"That might be my fault," her sibling chortled. Deftly, he removed her comb from her fingers, and commenced combing her locks as he had done countless times before, both of them taking comfort in the familiar strokes that gently wormed out every tangle on her scalp. "I might have inadvertently made you sound younger than you are with all my stories about you. I'm afraid I chattered an awful lot about how wonderful you are, and I guess she listened to me."

"Oh." That was all Ginny said for awhile. Then, she eyed him sassily. "You're good at combing hair. Do you do this with Fleur?"

"Occasionally." Her brother shrugged. "Most of the time, though, we do other things when we're alone together." The instant he realized what he had said, he shook his head in despair. "I can't believe I made a remark like that to my innocent little sister."

"Not so innocent," snickered Ginny, "you see, I've been dating Michael Corner for a few months now."

"Where does he live, so I can kill him?"

"What are you going to do if I do finally end up with Harry Potter and he wants to wed me?" Ginny questioned, her brown eyes somber.

"I guess I can't murder the Boy Who Lived, but if you wish to marry any other man, he had better watch out," returned Bill, half serious, and half jesting.

"Now you know how I feel," Ginny informed him, simple but eloquent.

Sighing, Bill laid down her comb, and tugged on her wrists, forcing her to spin about completely and face him. "Tigress, I love you very much, and I value the bond the two of us share as much as you do, I swear. Once I'm married, I'll still be your brother, and I promise I will find time to spend with you."

"I reckon that's the best I can hope for."

"Fleur wants you to be her bridesmaid―you and her little sister, Gabrielle." Trying to make her feel better, because he could hear the desolation in her tone, he patted her shoulder.

"That doesn't mean that I have to like her?" Ginny's eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't like anyone I married," Bill mocked her.

"I wouldn't mind Tonks, because at least she's a laugh," she tossed back.

"The only reason you don't mind her, Ginny, is because there is no chance that I would wed her, because she was Charlie's old sweetheart, and, furthermore, she and Remus have their hearts set on each other, and Remus will want to be with her, once he realizes that being a werewolf shouldn't prevent him from pursuing his love."

"I see." As she established as much, Ginny curled up into a compact ball, getting into a pose that she only employed when she was seething. The explosion that Bill had been anticipating ever since she had entered that position rocked the room. "Still, that doesn't mean I have to like the woman who is going to steal you from me! And that doesn't mean that I have to be happy just because you're getting married to a French slut!"

"Ginny!" Bill barked, responding instinctively to the insult. "Apologize at once!"

"I'm not sorry I voiced the truth," she shouted back. "It's so loose the way she kisses you all the time and everything."

"You're just like Mum, you know…in one breath you accuse her of being too lofty, and in the next too warm!" exclaimed an exasperated Bill, any remaining patience exhausted. "I suppose it never entered your mind that she is from a different culture, and so her customs differ from ours. I also suppose that you never thought about the fact that sexual mores are a product of one's culture, either. Just think, in the Middle East, a woman is deemed not virtuous if any of her skin shows, or if she wears pants, but here, it is perfectly normal if you wear jeans! While you're at it, you might also want to contemplate the fact that English is not her native tongue, and that is part of the reason she comes off as aloof, since language serves not only to unite people, but to divide them as well, if they do not speak it fluently."

Recognizing as his temper finally simmered down that he might have sounded a bit harsh, he amended, "And, Ginny, I love you no matter what, and she could never steal my love from you."

"Don't you see she already has?" Ginny fumed, and he could hear the tears she wouldn't let him see behind her voice as she buried herself in her sphere yet more deeply. "You've already taken her side, not mine!"

"I…" he faltered.

"Go away." Sticking her pointer finger out of her ball, Ginny jabbed it at the door in a sharp dismissal. "I don't ever want to see you again."

Determining that he could not soothe her at the moment, Bill departed, and headed off to London to meet with a less combustible woman that he loved, wishing that this whole marriage process could be easier for everyone. Bless everybody's tortured, tangled hearts, he thought, appealing to God, as he Disapparated.


	56. Chapter 56

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Christmas Again

Before Bill knew it, the weather had turned frigid again, and the sounds of everyone hurrying to their destinations in Diagon Alley, not stopping to linger at any attractive displays that could be seen around the gaudy purple Ministry posters that hung over every shop window, reminding everybody of basic procedures anyone who was not a vegetable was already familiar with, and offering rewards for the capture of known Death Eaters, were muffled by the sheet of snow. To be honest, Bill did not mind snow. Or at any rate, he did not mind it as long as it remained untainted by animal droppings, and mud. Then, it was transformed into a disgusting grayish substance that he did not comprehend how so many people could idolize.

Much too soon for his liking, he found himself bustling around Diagon Alley during his lunch hours, trying to avoid glancing at the boarded up stores of Ollivander and Florean Fortescue, who he suspected had been captured by the Death Eaters, and trying to find the perfect present for all his loved ones. In the end, he decided that he had been relatively successful in discovering gifts that would make those close to him smile for at least a moment before the horror of the war they were engaged in swept over them again.

If only he could be as successful in his endeavor to comprehend why the Death Eaters had kidnapped Florean Fortescue, he thought at the end of his shopping venture as he returned home to the Burrow. Ollivander's disappearance was easy enough to explain, since You-Know-Who probably wanted to ensure that all future wizards and witches did not have access to the best wands in the land, but what did You-Know-Who want with Florean? What advantage could a man whose most valuable skill was his milkshake concocting and ice-cream manufacturing abilities afford to You-Know-Who and his supporters? Did they really have such sweet teeth? The notion made him grin, as he entered the house to find Tonks crying as his mother patted the younger woman on the back.

"What's wrong, Tonks?" he inquired, concerned, as he slipped into the chair to her left.

"I h―h-hate that Remus Lupin so much," Tonks wailed in response, and Mrs. Weasley squeezed her shoulder, causing Bill to wish fervently that his mum would demonstrate half as much tenderness with Fleur.

"Wow, I'm impressed," observed Bill, biting into a plum from the fruit bowl in the center of the table. "I must confess that I thought the most powerful hostile emotions that man could inspire were impatience or frustration. Are you sure you aren't confusing him with Severus Snape, you know, the slimy git with the mop of grease, instead of hair?"

"Why m―m―must men invariably mock us women?" Tonks glared at him through tear-filled eyes. "For your information, Bill Weasley, I am perfectly aware of whom Severus Snape is, and he's not the one that my hatred is directed toward at the moment. At least, he wouldn't refuse to date a female, kiss her, and then turn down her offer to go out on a date again."

When she offered this comment, Bill tossed the remaining half of his plum into the trash can. "That's gross, Tonks, just gross. Honestly, the image of Severus Snape kissing anyone is enough to ensure that I will never eat again."

"Is that all you can say to me?" demanded Tonks furiously. "I just asked Remus to go out with me, and he said no, which would have been awfully humiliating on its own, and then he gets my hopes up for a romance by kissing me on the lips, and then he has the audacity to dash them again, just after I have the nerve to ask him out for a second time. Gosh, at Hogwarts, everyone claimed that you were better with feelings than Charlie, but that doesn't seem to be the case at all from what I've seen!"

"Sorry," he replied sincerely. "Love is a harsh master over everybody, and nobody can control it. It slithers like a serpent into their minds, and controls them, and they are defenseless against it, until it decides to leave them, at which point, they feel hollow without it, and embark on a quest to uncover it again. Simply put, love is the drug that we're all addicted to, and that will kill us all in the most dreadfully slow way imaginable."

"Oh, that's so easy for you to say!" she snarled, her nose transforming in her ire. "You're going to be married in a couple of months, in case you've forgotten, which is entirely possible, because that's just characteristic of what a man would do in that situation, I suspect."

Before Bill could retort that this was not such an uncomplicated matter, as his mother and Ginny were determined to loathe Fleur, Mrs. Weasley intervened, stroking Tonks' hair, which had been mouse-brown for several months, because of her crush on Lupin, "Calm yourself, dear. One day Remus will realize that he is taking a ridiculous line on all this, and everything will sort itself out. You know, I invited him to come over for Christmas, and he accepted, and the invitation is extended to you, as well."

"Thanks, but no," Tonks established, her tone firm as she mopped her eyes with the sleeves of her robes. Standing up, she added, "I'd better go now, because I'm supposed to be on duty up at the school in half an hour. I really appreciate the sympathy, Molly."

"Think nothing of it, dear," Mrs. Weasley reassured their visitor, as she exited with a "Wotcher."

"That poor thing," she lamented, shaking her head, as soon as Tonks had departed. "Love is ripping her heart and her soul in two, and I just wish that Remus would recognize that he's doing her no favor acting this way, and start dating her, at the very least."

"Perhaps Remus believes that he is protecting her from more heartache. Isn't that what you think that you are doing when you hurt me by completely ignoring Fleur half the time, even though I've asked you not to do so?" Bill arched his eyebrows at her, sensing this was an excellent opportunity to voice his continued grievance with the manner in which his fiancée was being treated by his mother.

"You cannot possibly compare your situation to the predicament Tonks is in," Mrs. Weasley flared up, at her most defensive. "If you ask me, it is obvious to even the blindest subterranean creature that she and Lupin were made for each other, whereas you and Fleur have nothing in common, and, therefore, have no future together."

"No offense intended, Mum, but that's a rather sweeping generalization for you to make regarding someone you haven't invested so much as an hour in truly getting to know," he responded as levelly as he could. "By the way, it is also one that is unchallenging to refute. For instance, Fleur and I work together, so right there we already have something in common."

"You both work at Gringotts, there's a solid foundation for any relationship," snorted his mum disdainfully.

"Well, it is an interesting statistic that many people marry a being that they meet at first in a work context," Bill commented, selecting an apple from the fruit bowl this time, and biting into it as he answered her.

"So propose to an English girl who isn't part Veela the next time you feel like testing the validity of some stupid statistic!"

"I didn't propose to her to experiment with some silly statistic," he educated her, still maintaining his patience, although he was starting to feel his blood boiling, which meant that soon he would lose his temper with her, if she did not alter her stance even a tad.

"Whatever you claim on the contrary, William, I am utterly convinced that you and that Dleacour girl have absolutely no future together," stated Mrs. Weasley flatly, as if she was establishing that the earth was round.

"Future?" As innocent as a newborn, Bill blinked. "Who mentioned anything about that?"

"_Bill!_ You're talking about marriage! A future is implied in the term itself, for heaven's sake."

"We're in the middle of a bloody war, Mum, in case it has slipped your mind. The protections around this house might malfunction tomorrow, the Death Eaters could come calling, and we could all cease to be just like that. Or there are a million other ways we could perish gloriously in a struggle against You-Know-Who and his minions. In short, we inhabit perilous times. Prognosis dismissed. Any future for any of us is purely theoretical― a chance to hone our imaginations."

"In essence, you admit that the war has made you hasty in your decision to wed Fleur," blustered Mrs. Weasley.

"Yes, it's made me ask for her hand sooner rather than later," he confessed after a moment's hesitation. Before she could pounce on this, he went on, "But that's not a crime, as much as you insist it is. The war has forced me to face my own mortality, and has forced me to realize that since my time on this planet is limited, I'd better get started creating my own family soon― and that I'd better recognize true love when I see it, because I might not have that much time to enjoy it."

"You're rationalizing what you know to be an imprudent decision," scoffed his mother.

"Maybe, but even the ancient Romans advise one to 'seize the day,' and I reckon they're right on that count." Bill shrugged, surprising even himself with the depth of his own thoughts and emotions. It was amazing that they could sound so clear aloud, but inside himself all was a jumble, as if his heart was comprised of scrambled puzzle pieces that he was not sure how to put together, even though he knew they were supposed to meld together to form a pretty design. "The present is all that we have, Mum. The past is gone, and the future, unfortunately, may never arrive. What exists is the now. Don't you comprehend that basic fact? Fleur and I love each other, and we can share and cherish the comfort we can provide one another in the here and the now. The past is frozen, the future is unformed, and for everyone, eternity rests in each heartbeat. Once you understand this, my choice doesn't seem half as dumb, at least not to me, and, ultimately, that's all that matters."

"I just hope that you don't regret your impulsiveness a couple of years down the line," sneered Mrs. Weasley.

"I give up trying to make you understand when you won't even attempt to!" Bill exploded, rising angrily, his wrath aroused by the fact that he had confided the fathoms of his heart and soul in her, and all she could do was jeer at him, when she had been more than willing to empathize with Tonks. He stalked upstairs to wrap his gifts, something that would no doubt serve to cheer him immensely, since he detested the chore even more than he did putting up the Christmas Tree, and that was saying something.

Before Bill knew it, it was Christmas Eve, and the entire Weasley clan, save Percy, Fleur, Harry, and Remus were clustered in the living room of the Burrow, which Ginny had decorated so lavishly that it was comparable to sitting in the midst of a paper-chain explosion.

Supposedly, they were all listening to Celestina Warbeck's annual Christmas special, but the terror twins and Ginny were playing a game of Exploding Snap, Mr. Weasley seemed half-asleep, and Remus Lupin was staring into the flames of the roaring fire, obviously not hearing a word of Celestina's crooning. As for himself, Bill was cuddled up with his fiancée under a woolen blanket, and he was relishing the warmth she radiated, and the sweet, flowery perfume that filled the air whenever she was near.

"Zat is an interesting angel," noted Fleur, her head resting on his chest, pointing at the plump figure that was evidently intended to be a cherub, which had been stuffed into a miniature tutu, and had tiny wings glued to it, and was, all in all, the most grotesque seraph Bill had ever seen in his life. By "interesting," he suspected Fleur probably meant something more along the lines of "revolting," "nauseating," "horrid," or "hideous."

"The ghoul must have finally gobbled up all of our old one," Bill chuckled, running a hand through her silver tresses, and admiring how they shimmered in the firelight. Merlin, he could spend a millennium just adoring her hair, never mind the rest of her. "I'll ask Ginny about it, because she did the decorating in here."

"When you do, tell 'er zat I think she did an excellent job, and zat she was very creative," Fleur told him, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the noise issuing from the radio, something Bill did not mind, since he preferred Fleur to Celestina any day of the week, but that prompted Mrs. Weasley to glower and point her want at the wireless, so the volume increased.

As Bill nodded his compliance, Fleur continued more dreamily, "Christmas is my favorite holiday. Ze whole season is simply superb. During ze days before Christmas, everyone is just a little more charitable to zeir fellow beings, and all ze decorations are gorgeous. At Beauxbatons, we 'ad lovely ice sculptures all around ze dining chamber at Christmastide. Zey did not melt, of course, because zey had been bewitched not to, and zey were like gigantic statues of diamond, glittering around ze place, so pure in zeir beauty. And we would 'ave choirs of wood nymphs zat would serenade us as we ate on ze last evening before break."

"We had decorations at Hogwarts, too. In the Great Hall, Hagrid and Professsor Flitwick would put up a dozen massive evergreens, for the Twelve Days of Christmas, I suppose, and they would string baubles over them. Evergreens were wrapped about the banisters, and mistletoe were hung in the corridors."

"Evergreens and mistletoe are nice, but Christmas Trees are my favorite decoration," Fleur decalred, her voice rising again, and Celestina's singing becoming more shrill in compensation a millisecond later at Mrs. Weasley's flicked wand. "It is one of ze few German customs zat are worthwhile, if you ask me. When I was in France, every year on ze day after I returned from school, Maman, Papa, Gabrielle, and I would all go up to ze mountains in ze North, where we could buy an evergreen. Gabrielle and I used to 'ave competitions to see which of us could find ze better tree for our living room. When we 'ad finally discovered ze perfect tree, and Papa 'ad chopped it down for us, we would go to a restaurant and get ze warmest chocolate-filled crepes in all of France."

"You're making me hungry," complained Bill, grabbing a tangerine from the coffee table beside the sofa. He slit the peel, twisted off a piece, and popped it in his mouth, smiling at the tang that filled his mouth. He broke off another chunk, and placed it on Fleur's tongue, commenting, "It's delicious. You should taste some."

She chewed and swallowed, prior to scolding him. "When you interrupt me, zen I lose my chain of thought!"

At that moment Bill's mother cut off his retort, by announcing loudly for the benefit of the whole room, "We danced to this when we were eighteen." More softly, she added as she wiped her eyes with her knitting, "Do you remember, Arthur?"

When his name was called, Mr. Weasley jerked upright so abruptly that his glasses were sent askew. "Oh, yes," he agreed with unconvincing enthusiasm. "A marvelous tune."

Fortunately, his wife did not notice anything suspicious about this, as she was once again engrossed in what was, for Celestina, a jazzy number titled "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love."

"Do you think zat we'll be like zis when we 'ave been married as long?" Fleur whispered, her head swinging as she glanced first at Bill's mum and then his dad, her hair swatting his face gently as she did so.

"Merlin, I hope not," mumbled Bill, "because I like to think that you have a better taste in music than Mum does, although I have no notion of what your French musicians are babbling on about, so I can't be sure. Of course, you probably don't, since psychologists insist that we basically end up marrying our opposite sex parents, although the reasons they offer for why we do so vary considerably in levels of freakiness."

"'Ave I ever told you zat you are totally unromantic?" Fleur nudged him playfully in the ribcage with her elbow.

"Only every day, darling." As he established as much, Bill kissed her cheek. "And I shall never grow tired of hearing you say it."

"Humph. For a minute zere, you sounded almost romantic."

"Heaven forbid," laughed Bill. "Anyway, you were being very romantic earlier, and telling me about how you used to go Christmas Tree hunting with your family, and how you would go out to eat crepes afterward…"

"Not just any crepes," interjected Fleur, "ze most delightful ones in all of France, even better zan my mama's, and zat is saying something."

"Right, so would you care to tell me the rest of the story?" Bill arched his eyebrows at her inquiringly.

"Zere isn't zat much left to tell," Fleur informed him, her cheeks rosy. "After we eat, we would go to a park in ze mountains, and Gabrielle and I would sled down ze mountain. I enjoyed sledding, or, rather, I enjoyed going downhill, with ze exhilaration of ze wind blowing in my hair, and my body gaining speed, and little Gabrielle giggling in front of me on ze sled. To be 'onest, I did not much care for ze trudging uphill afterward."

Bill opened his mouth to answer, but lost track of what exactly he was going to express when he became aware of the fact that someone was staring at him. Craning his neck slightly, he saw that Ron was eyeing him as if he were trying to pick up tips, although he quickly averted his gaze when he noticed that his elder brother was looking at him. As he turned back to focus on Fleur again, Bill wished that Harry would chat with Ron, but the Boy Who Lived was currently engaged in a conversation with Mr. Weasley and Remus, which meant that he and Fleur would have to endure Ron's scrutiny for awhile longer. Oh, well, maybe if he and Fleur didn't do anything very exciting, Ron would stare at somebody else.

"We've got an admirer," he muttered under his breath to the woman next to him, nodding his head at Ron. "I expect he wants to learn about how to deal with Lavender Brown."

"Lavender Brown?" echoed Fleur.

"The girl he is dating, according to Ginny," Bill updated her. "Ginny tells me that she is quite a frivolous airhead. Really, Ron would be so much happier if he just screwed up his courage, and asked Hermione Granger out, since anyone can see that they are crushing on each other, and he wouldn't have to put up with a ditz anymore."

At this point, they were interrupted by the sounds of resounding applause, which Mrs. Weasley vigorously joined in with, issuing from the wireless. The sudden, rather shocking silence that ensued after this, implied that Celestina's special was finally over, much to Bill's inner jubilation. Apparently, Fleur felt similarly, for she demanded in a carrying voice, probably because she had not yet adapted to not shouting over Celestina, "Is it over, zen? Thank goodness, what an 'orrible―"

"Shall we have a nightcap, then?" Mr. Weasley intervened, lurching to his feet as though he had been electrified, and Bill made a mental note to thank his father for saving Fleur's neck. "Who wants eggnog?"

"I do," Bill stated with considerably more volume than he would typically have done, since he hated the substance due to its peculiar consistency. However, he suspected that his dad did not even hear his words, since he had already bustled into the kitchen to retrieve the eggnog, successfully buying enough time for everyone else to stretch and break into conversation, masking Fleur's blunder.

Unfortunately, the relative peace did not last long, because there must have been some alcohol in the eggnog, since after she had consumed three glasses of it, Fleur decided that it was prudent to imitate Celestina's rendition of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love." Worse still, even though he knew in the back of his brain that it was certifiably insane to do so, Bill found himself snickering at her imitation…yes, his betrothed and Charlie needed to get together, as they both had uncanny skills at imitating others.

Luckily, his dad remained alert, and once again saved the night, by jumping out of his chair before his spouse could flare up. "I'm exhausted. I'm going off to bed." After that, everybody was able to exit at top speed, before Mrs. Weasley could murder anyone.

The next morning, as he stared down at his newly unwrapped presents, Bill was faced with a massive dilemma. As usual, his mother had given him a homemade sweater, and he had no desire to snub her by not donning it, as the rest of his family and Harry would do. Yet, and here lay the real problem, he was willing to bet his right arm that Fleur had not received a Weasley sweater, and he did not want to make his future bride feel left out by being the only one who did not have a new sweater to wear. And, if he didn't figure out what in the world he was going to do soon, he would be late for breakfast, which would alienate his mum anyway. Oh, when had life become so cursed complicated?

Wishing fervently that whoever had devised the tortuous concepts of family and marriage was burning in the underworld, Bill tossed on his Weasley sweater, and hurried downstairs, praying that Fleur fancied the pearl earrings and necklace he had purchased her very, very much.

When he arrived in the kitchen, he regretted his choice, as Mrs. Weasley appeared to be in a far better mood than she had been last evening, because she had been given her a brand-new midnight-blue witch's hat that glittered with that looked like tiny star-like diamonds, and a matching golden necklace.

"Fred and George gave them to me!" she beamed as they all settled themselves at the table to enjoy the delicious meal she had concocted for them. "Aren't they beautiful?"

"Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks." George waved his right hand in an airy dismissal as everyone present chorused that they were, indeed, spectacular. "Parsnips, Remus?"

As George passed Remus the parsnips, Bill's radar detected that Ginny was leaning forward across the table to Harry, getting much closer than she should to any boy that wasn't one of her numerous brothers, and the way Harry bent toward her as she approached him suggested that he did not mind this occurrence in the slightest, and, in fact, took pleasure in it. Bill felt his blood pressure rise remarkably, so that he feared he would suffer a heart attack, as his sister touched Harry's hair, and pulled a maggot out of it. While he debated if killing the Boy Who Lived really would destroy the anti-You-Know-Who effort, and if there really was any chance that he would be more successful in this endeavor than the most powerful Dark wizard to inhabit the planet had been, Ginny educated Harry cheerily, "You've got a maggot in your hair."

"'Ow 'orrible." To his right, Bill felt Fleur give an affected little shudder. Before he could take advantage of the opportunity to touch her shoulder as if to soothe her, Ron had stepped in with his usual clumsiness.

"Yes, isn't it?" The youngest Weasley boy agreed. "Gravy, Fleur." Not allowing the addressed an opening in which to respond, Ron practically dived on the table, and ended up knocking the gravy boat flying.

Rolling his eyes as he thought that Ron needed to start dating Hermione Granger today, Bill waved his wand at the dish, and the gravy soared back into its container before it could baptize everybody. However, his impatience with Ron evaporated entirely when Fleur pounced on this excuse to kiss him energetically in gratitude.

When they remembered that they were at the table, and had pulled away from each other, Fleur informed Ron, "You are as bad as zat Tonks. She is always knocking―"

"I invited _dear_ Tonks to come along today," snapped Mrs. Weasley, attempting to murder her future-daughter-in-law with her eyes. Abruptly, she turned her gaze upon Remus, who cringed slightly when she did so. "But she wouldn't come. Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?"

"I wish Mum would stop playing matchmaker," Bill hissed in Fleur's ear, as Lupin replied that Tonks had her own family to spend the holiday with. When Fleur started feeding him some turkey from her platter, he lost interest in following the conversation, and was riveted by her, instead.

In fact, he only began to pay attention to the proceedings once more when his mother screamed, "Arthur!" Whirling about to face her, Bill saw that she had risen from her chair, her hand pressed over her chest, as she stared out of the kitchen window, obviously unable to believe her eyes. "Arthur―it's Percy!"

"What?" Astonished, her husband looked around. Everyone who was not already doing so, glanced out the window, in order to see Percy striding briskly across the snowy yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight, his manner implying that he had never left the house. However, he was not alone, for what appeared to be Rufus Scrimgeour was limping along in his wake.

Before Bill could absorb this data, the kitchen door swung open, and Percy was revealed to be outlined in the threshold. There was a moment of pained silence, in which Bill struggled not to close his heart to his little sibling. He understood that Percy was here to provide the Minister with an excuse to pester Harry into becoming the new Ministry poster boy, but, then again, he told himself, did it really matter how Perce came home, as long as he did so in the end?

"Merry Christmas, Mother," Percy pronounced stiffly. It seemed that she was the only member of the family that he would deign to speak to, for he did not so much as glance at any of the other beings clustered around the table, and, for a split second, Bill could not blame him, as nobody else beside her had ever truly invested any effort in understanding Percy.

Then, his heart broke as he watched his mother lurch forward to wrap her arms around her third son, wailing, "Oh, Percy!"

At this point, Scrimgeour arrived in the doorway, and forced a smile at what he assumed he was supposed to deem an affecting scene. "You must forgive this intrusion. Percy and I were in the vicinity― working, you know― and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all."

Somehow, Bill doubted very much that this was the case, because Percy looked as though the last thing he wanted to do was greet any of the remaining Weasleys, for he was standing poker-straight, studying a spot situated over all their heads. It also appeared that none of the other Weasleys wanted to greet him, either, if his dad's, Fred's, and George's stony faces were any indicators. As for himself, Bill had no idea what he should say to his younger brother, and, with a pang, he realized that he had never known the right thing to say to Perce―there had always been a barrier between them whenever they had tried to communicate. So he just sat right there in his chair, not participating in yet another Weasley showdown, and feeling like a third wheel on a bicycle.

"Please come in, and sit down, Minister!" fluttered Mrs. Weasley into the awkward silence. "Have a little purkey, or some tooding…I mean―"

"No, no, my dear Molly," interrupted Scrimgeour, smiling reassuringly at her. "I don't want to intrude. I wouldn't be here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly."

Most likely, he meant that he would not have been at the Burrow if Harry had not been staying here, and Percy did not provide a halfway decent excuse for his dropping by, Bill thought scornfully.

His suspicions were confirmed when Scrimgeour continued, "We've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you, I don't want to butt in! Well, if anybody cared to show me your charming garden…" Here there was a pregnant pause as the man pretended to scan the room for someone who had completed their meal, and pretended to ignore the empty saucers of Ginny, George, and Fleur, as he focused on Harry, and decided to act as if he had no clue what the Boy Who Lived looked like. "Ah, that young man is finished. Why doesn't he take a stroll with me?"

"Yeah, all right," Harry conceded, emerald eyes narrowing warily, as he shoved himself to his feet before Bill's father could protest.

"Wonderful!" Scrimgeour pronounced as he exited with Harry. "We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I will be off. Carry on, everyone!"

As soon as the door had shut behind Harry and the Minister, Mr. Weasley glared at his third-born child. "So, it's not enough that you have to distress your mother by leaving home, no, you have to come back in this fashion, don't you?"

"I don't have any notion what you are babbling on about, sir," Percy stammered, flushed. "I suggest, though, that you visit a Healer at St. Mungo's. It is entirely possible that you are suffering under a poorly performed Memory Charm, or have sipped some Babbling Potion by mistake, both of which can be cured by a stint in the hospital, I assure you."

"Don't pretend ignorance, for it scarcely becomes you," snarled Mr. Weasley. "After abandoning your family for over a year, you have the nerve to come back here, and pretend to want to see us again, so that the Minister can attempt to persuade Harry to be his poster boy, although Dumbledore ordered that the boy be left alone. You know what? I take back what I said about you not being a Gryffindor! If you have the audacity to show up here in this manner, you have the nerve of a Gryffindor without any of the nobility that typically is present in members of our House!"

"Excuse me, but I think that the Minister has every right to see any of his citizens whenever he so desires," his son fired back, brown eyes crackling. "Furthermore, any citizen with an ounce of sanity would be honored by the Minister's calling upon him."

"Only if that citizen is a power-hungry git like you," observed George icily, "which, Harry isn't."

"Yes, and besides, Dumbledore has forbidden Scrimgeour to contact Harry," Mr. Weasley added.

"It is with great regret that I remind you, sir, that Rufus Scrimgeour is the Minister of Magic, not Albus Dumbledore, and, as Minister, Mr. Scrimgeour can visit anyone he likes whenever he so desires!" blustered Percy, his back more rigid than ever in his rage.

"Oh, shut your trap before you make me sick, as if your ugly face isn't enough to make me ill already!" barked Fred, throwing a forkful of mashed parsnip at Percy. It splattered against his glasses, and, cursing, Percy reached up to remove them, but was halted mid-motion when Fred, George, and Ginny catapulted wad after wad of parsnip at his face.

Shrieking like a banshee, Percy tore out of the house, and, a few minutes later, Harry slipped into his seat again, wearing a defiant expression, which told everyone more clearly than words that he had refused the Minister's offer to serve as an advertisement. Obviously, the Minister had forgotten that Harry did not need any assistance in becoming famous, as he was already renowned for surviving the Killing Curse. It was rather amusing, Bill thought, as he bit a hunk of cold turkey.


	57. Chapter 57

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that reminds you in any way, shape, or form of Harry Potter

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that reminds you in any way, shape, or form of Harry Potter. For less astonishing news, please check the headlines of your local newspaper.

Author's Note: You have my most sincere apologies if this is lame, because I think my brain is still recovering from the SATs I took this Saturday. (Let's hope I did well, and that my Math scores went up.)

Reviews: If you have the time, please drop me a line, because I really appreciate it during this stressful AP prep time.

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Surprise Attacks

"I wish Dumbledore would tell us about these sorts of things in advance," grumbled Tonks mutinously, as she, Remus, and Bill Apparated outside the grounds of Hogwarts, and wended their way up to the wrought iron school gate. As Remus sent off his moon-shaped Patronus to alert McGonagall to their presence, so she could admit them, Tonks went on in the same dissatisfied manner, "I mean, he told us about this excursion he was going on maybe four hours ago, and three Order members are supposed to find time in their lives to appear here to stand guard? What would happen if everyone in the Order had better things to do at that time, and nobody could make it, huh? I'll bet that never even entered his mind…he can be so aggravating sometimes…"

"Well, it all worked out fine in the end," Remus cut in, as the three of them spotted McGonagall hurrying down the pathway toward them, "and you didn't have to volunteer if it upsets you so immensely."

"I'm not complaining about standing guard," huffed Tonks, crossing her arms, and turning her back on him.

At this point, Bill decided that it was going to be an excruciatingly long night at this rate, but fortunately, McGonagall arrived before he had to attempt to smooth the situation over. As he followed Remus and Tonks through the gate, Bill asked McGonagall, "So, what's Dumbledore up to exactly?"

"The same thing that he is always up to whenever he leaves this institution," replied McGonagall, her tone clipped.

"Which would be what precisely?" he pressed as the four of them walked up the marble stairwell into the entrance hall of the castle.

"That's the million Galleon question," she responded, scowling. "He refuses to share any of the reasons behind the quests he undertakes with any of us, even though we would die for his cause. On second thought, perhaps I shouldn't claim that he hasn't confided his plans to anyone, when Potter has apparently gone out tonight with him."

"To where?" This time it was Remus who made the inquiry as they climbed the staircase to the upper stories of Hogwarts.

"It's somewhere on this planet, and that's about all I know," McGonagall educated him. Glaring owlishly about at them all, she continued, "If you all will give me a chance to speak without ceaseless interruptions, I shall explain to you all that Dumbledore saw fit to tell me. Anyway, he informed me tonight at supper that he and Potter would be leaving the school for a couple of hours, and, therefore, I was to patrol the halls just to make certain that nothing fishy occurred. He also told me that you three would be arriving to assist me. Flitwick should be down in a moment."

"Will Severus be joining us as well?" inquired Remus, and Bill prayed that this would not be the case, and that the Potions Master had just come down with some dreadful affliction, such as lung rot.

"No." McGonagall shook her head briskly. "He insists that he is much too busy with grading essays to roam the corridors searching for any sign of trouble, but he promised that, in the highly unlikely occurrence that something does happen, I was to send for him, and he would hasten up here, and save our skins. By the way, those are his terms, not mine." When she made this final statement, McGonagall's lips thinned, suggesting her disapproval.

At that moment, a cheery, but squeaky, voice hailed them all, "Hello, everyone." Pivoting as one unit, Bill, Remus, Tonks, and McGonagall spotted little Professor Flitwick charging toward them from the far end of the corridor. As he reached them, he panted, "I'm so sorry for my tardiness, but I really wanted to finish grading those papers for my fourth-years, because they have been asking for me to hand them back for a week now, and I'm afraid that they will attack me soon if I do not honor their request."

"Don't fret, Filius," McGonagall reassured her colleague crisply, "for we have not even divided into patrol groups yet." Extending her focus to the rest of her companions now, she reasoned, "Now, it is possible that we all went around the castle on patrol by ourselves, but I don't believe that to be the best course of action, as, if something were to happen, it would be difficult for us to communicate, and, if there is an attack, it is preferable that we are in some semblance of a group to combat the assault together, rather than alone."

"Agreed," assented Flitwick in his high-pitched tone.

"Thank you." McGonagall nodded to her fellow educator. "As you all have undoubtedly concluded by this point, there are five of us present, and since five is not a number that is divisible by two―"

"You mean that five is not a number that is _evenly_ divisible by two," interjected Tonks, prompting McGonagall to glower at her like a wrathful eagle, "as when five is divided by two the answer is two and a half."

"Which means that if we wanted to have two even patrol groups, we could have someone attempt to Disapparate here," added Bill, smirking, because after all these years it was deeply satisfying to catch his former Transfiguration teacher making an error. "Then, once they have Splinched themselves, half of them could go with one group, and the other half could go with the second group. It seems like a very simple plan to me, actually."

"Now that you mention it, I think that you both have a brilliant proposal," McGonagall snapped, her nostrils flaring so much that any self respecting flag would have been envious of it. "I nominate either of you to be the noble individual who gets Splinched. You can determine which one of you ends up receiving the honor among yourselves."

"This is counterproductive," intervened Remus quietly before Bill or Tonks could retort. "As Minerva no doubt was trying to establish, it would be sensible, given our odd number of people that we split up into a group of two and a group of three."

"You are correct, for that is exactly what I was saying." McGonagall quickly regained control of the situation. "So, Remus, you martyr, will accompany these two idiots―" she jabbed her index finger first at Tonks, and then at Bill― "because if I have to deal with them any longer, I might find myself strangling them. Flitwick and I will work together as a pair." With that, she set off rapidly down the hall without as much as a backward glance, Flitwick bobbing merrily in her wake. Once the two Hogwarts professors had disappeared from view, the remaining three Order members walked down the corridor in the opposite direction.

The evening started out quietly, with only the sound of their footsteps on the flagstones shattering the silence that filled the school, and Bill was carried back in time to other times he had patrolled the halls of Hogwarts. Suddenly, he remembered things he had not contemplated in years, things he was convinced he had forgotten, but that, apparently, he had not. As he headed down the hallways beside Tonks and Remus, he recalled how he used to sit on widow ledges during his patrol hours, completing homework for his classes…he was reminded of how he had been laboring over an essay for Arithmancy one day in his sixth year when Tonks had barreled out of Transfiguration, tears of fury sparkling in her eyes, because some girl had mocked her for her crush on Charlie, and how that had been the catalyst Charlie had needed to ask Tonks to date him…less happily, he remembered with a jolt, roaming the corridors listlessly, trying to make sense of Sarah's suicide, until Dumbledore had finally sought him out, and dealt with his fears. And here he was again, so many years later, patrolling the same corridors. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, after all, then.

Abruptly, he was wrenched out of his musings. Screams were echoing toward him, Tonks, and Remus. Racing in the direction of the shouts, the three of them nearly collided with Ron, Ginny, and a boy Bill thought was named Neville Longbottom, who were all mumbling incoherently, "Malfoy got the Death Eaters in―near the Room of Requirement―all dark―only just got away."

The instant he comprehended this telegraphic speech, Bill shoved his younger siblings away from him, and ordered, "Get back up to your common room immediately, and don't leave there whatever you do." To the strange boy, he amended, "You'd better get back to your common room, as well."

"We're not going anywhere!" declared Ginny and Ron vehemently. "We're going to fight against the Death Eaters!"

"Just do as I say!" Bill gave his brother and sister a harder push in the direction of the Gryffindor Tower. "You can't do anything, and we can handle it just fine without you lot."

After that, he had just enough time to register that his siblings were fleeing, although he could not ascertain if they were indeed complying with his commands, before he, Tonks, and Remus withdrew their wands, and charged down the hallway that the trio of adolescents had just emerged from. In less than a minute, they found themselves facing a herd of Death Eaters lead by a pale blond boy. Then, he was engaged in a battle with a lumpy-looking wizard with a lopsided leer that implied that his pureblood family line was too inbred, and the outside world had faded away, leaving only this fight with a Death Eater. As his foe healed himself from a curse that had sliced his wrist, Bill saw out of the corner of his eye Tonks conjure a Patronus while her opponent, a stocky woman with a similar stupid sneer regained her feet after a spell of Tonks' had resulted in her sprawling on the ground. Obviously, Tonks was asking for Flitwick and McGonagall to reinforce them.

He was proven correct in this assumption when McGonagall a dashed into view, her wand poised for war, barely two minutes later. "Filius has gone to alert Snape," she shouted at her allies, as she knocked out an unsuspecting Death Eater with a deft Stunning Spell, and whirled about to duel with another one. "They should be up in a minute or two, I imagine."

For the first and last time in his life, Bill was pleased to hear of the imminent arrival of Severus Snape the Slimy, because, currently, the members of the Order were seriously outnumbered by their enemy, which was why they were already in retreat, heading toward the towers, and, whatever else he was, Snape was excellent at defensive magic. The presence of Flitwick and Snape could stem their retreat, and bide them enough time of holding off the Death Eaters for Dumbledore to appear, and turn the tide.

Unfortunately, that was not to be, for Snape materialized, his black cloak sweeping around his feet, alone within two minutes. "Where's Filius?" McGonagall asked the question on Bill's mind, turning her back briefly upon her adversary. "Take that you!" She shot an Impediment Jinx at her Death Eater, who had been planning to hex her while her back was to him, but who was foiled in this objective.

"He has fainted, I'm afraid," hollered Snape, and Bill returned his entire focus to his duel, before his divided attention landed him in a mountain of trouble.

Again, Bill's mind was a haze of offensive and defensive spells that he cast almost without thought, although he tried to keep an eye on his comrades, in case they ever required his assistance. It was fortunate that he did so, for behind Tonks, a man in the Death Eater uniform perched like a gigantic bird of prey on the tower steps, suddenly pounced down on her like a jaguar in a jungle. Acting on instinct, Bill tugged on her robes, yanking her toward him, as Stunning Spells and Stinging Hexes broke narrowly missed them, having been fired by both their opponents when they noted their weakness.

"What's your malfunction, anyhow?" growled Tonks irately, swatting his hand away from her. "You're going to get the pair of us killed if you keep that up, you know!"

The man that had leapt from the stairs, and who had crumpled on the floor, since the woman he had suspected to topple on had moved, was also cross at him, and his anger turned out to be far worse than Tonks'. Snarling like a wolf, the Death Eater launched himself at Bill so swiftly that he had no time to react, and just stood, shocked, where he was. An overwhelming stench of dirt, sweat, and dried blood deluged his nostrils as the Death Eater pounced jumped on his chest savagely. The inertia forced Bill to the stone floor. Desperately, he attempted to throw his assailant off him, calling at Tonks to aid him. However, she was too appalled by all this, and remained stationary, staring down at the wrestling match on the floor.

The man breathed heavily, and Bill commented mentally that toothpaste and breath mints were created solely for this guy's benefit. Then, he was crying out in unendurable agony as sets of razor sharp teeth sank into the vulnerable flesh of his shoulder, and, after a few seconds of anguish which he never could have envisioned existed this side of hell, everything went black, and the pain receded into blissful oblivion, which indicated that he had perished, although he had not seen any white light, which seemed to suggest that he was not going to heaven, though he had not felt the scorching heat that accompanied the other final destination. It was weird, but nothing to worry about. In fact, there was nothing to worry about now that the pain had faded.


	58. Chapter 58

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but remember to switch Geico, and save 15 or more on car insurance

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, but remember to switch Geico, and save 15 or more on car insurance.

Reviews: Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter. All of you are so inspiring to me. Be even more amazing, and review this one, too.

Author's Note: I sincerely hope that this one goes as well as the last installment did, but if it didn't, I am so sorry. Sorry it is so short, but I wrote it during our Chemistry lab, because our teacher decided we wouldn't have one during the AP weeks, so I thought I would publish it now, instead of waiting until I finished the funeral scene and stuff, which will appear in the next chapter.

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Healing Magic

A while later― he couldn't describe how long exactly, because he was suspended in a peculiar alternate universe of pitch blackness where time was a meaningless commodity― a faint light began to blaze in his head. Slowly, painstakingly, the light increased in intensity, mirroring a rising sun, and as it grew, his consciousness of the world surrounding him burgeoned, as well. He became aware that he was lying on a comfortable mattress with a blanket tucked about him. A damp sponge was patting his face in a soothing fashion. Unfortunately, with the gradual return of awareness came the resurrection of pain. Not the searing agony that he had experienced before he had blanked out, but rather a constant, biting pain centered in his face.

At the moment, he was tempted to open his eyes, but that seemed to require a tremendous burst of effort, and, based on the raw slices he felt lining his cheeks and forehead, it would be an anguish inducing endeavor. In the end, he compromised by opening his heavy eyelids a crack. When he slit his eyes, he realized that Fleur was the one who was dabbing a moist sponge over his wounds, tears leaking down her pale, pretty face. Somewhat to his surprise, his mother, who was sobbing also, had her arms wrapped around his fiancée.

At this point, Fleur noticed that he was awake, and bent down to kiss an uncut bit of flesh. "Thank God zat you are up," she murmured, and, with considerable difficulty, Bill opened his eyes entirely to see his father and Ginny sitting rigidly in the wodden chairs on the left side of his bed.

"Do― do you want anything?" his mum tentatively inquired of him. Apparently, she was incapable of gazing upon his marred visage, for she addressed her question to his sheet, instead.

"Water," he rasped, recognizing abruptly that his throat was drier than the Sahara Desert in midsummer, and that he craved water more than anything else the world had to offer at the present. Instantly, Mr. Weasley leaned forward, snatched a pitcher and goblet off the nightstand, and loaded the goblet with water from the pitcher. The sound of the water pouring steadily into the vessel was, currently, a sound more attractive than a choir of angels singing. With the assistance of Fleur, he was able to prop himself on his pillows well enough to sip liquid from the cup his dad held out to him without dribbling it all down his front.

Once he had consumed all the water he could swallow, Mrs. Weasley asked, "Is there anything else we can get you, dear?"

"Yeah," Bill replied. Speaking, he found, prompted coils of agony to spiral through him. After taking a massive breath to steel himself, he resumed, "A mirror would be great."

"A mirror?" Mrs. Weasley's tone implied that she had never heard of such a rare, precious object before. "What would you need a mirror for?"

"To see my reflection in," he educated her heavily, feeling like Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

"But― dear― I think," sputtered his mum.

"Are you sure you want to do that now?" Mr. Weasley gestured weakly at his son's face to illustrate his remark. "That is, it might be better if you wait. The shock probably won't be beneficial to you in your current state."

"Dad." Exhausted, Bill collapsed further into his mound of pillows. "I can guess from your faces that it is awful. I want to discover just how horrible it is." He meant the words, because he recognized that, at this juncture, it was better to deal with the pain of knowledge than to contend with the agony of uncertainty. Still, he wasn't exactly looking forward to the ordeal of staring at the ruin of his features.

"Very well, then, dear, if you're positive that is what you wish," sighed Mrs. Weasley, patting his hand before she turned to depart the ward. "I'll― I'll go fetch you one, shall I?"

"I'll come with you, Mum," Ginny established, rising briskly. She bent over and kissed her brother on an unharmed fragment of skin on his forehead. Her voice broke slightly, as she whispered, "I love you, no matter what."

Before Bill could respond, she had straightened once more, and addressed her mother in a determinedly level and strong tone, "I have a mirror in my dormitory that we can grab." Mrs. Weasley bobbed her head in understanding, and within seconds, the two Weasley women had crossed the hospital wing and exited, shutting the door softly in their wake.

"You and Mum appear to be getting along better now," murmured Bill to his bride-to-be, as soon as his mum had left with his sister.

"Yes, and I only wish zat it 'ad not taken a werewolf bite for 'er to comprehend zat I love you for who you are, and zat I am never going to leave you." There was a trace of bitterness in Fleur's manner.

"A werewolf," Bill echoed, stunned. "Is that what bit me?"

"Yes." Squeezing, his hand, Fleur nodded her head in confirmation. "It was zat dreadful Fenrir Grayback zat bit you."

Bill felt the moment whirl out of control into impossible time that froze everything, even his heart, as he struggled to absorb this revelation. Finally, he mumbled, running a palm against his temples, but stopping almost immediately when waves of pain spiked through his scalp. "But it wasn't a full moon, so I won't be a― a―a―" For some reason, he couldn't utter the word "werewolf" in relation to himself, and he lapsed into silence.

"Remus said zat your circumstance was unique, because you 'ad been bitten by an untransformed werewolf," Fleur informed him delicately, her hand clasped about his shoulder. "He told me zat you will have some scars and wolfish tendencies from now on, but zat you will not be a true werewolf."

"Oh, good." To be honest, Bill did know how he felt about this update, but he figured he would do well to accept or at least endure that which he could not alter. Now, if he could only uncover how much his face had been destroyed, so he could know how much he could have to suffer through.

At that instant, as though his thoughts had summoned them, his mother and sister arrived, bearing a mirror. Ginny shoved the looking-glass into his hands, and then fled over to the window that brooded over the Hogwarts grounds. Mrs. Weasley bustled after her, tears streaming down her cheeks, and her husband joined the pair barely a second later. Once he was left alone with Fleur, Bill took a massive preparatory breath worthy of a Muggle Olympic diver, and dared to peek into the mirror. Yes, what assumed was his reflection was staring back at him, but as far as he was concerned, what he discerned resembled mincemeat more than his features. God, he couldn't walk through the rest of his life like this…it would be way too humiliating. Besides, what had he done to deserve this, anyhow? Sure, he wasn't perfect. However, he certainly wasn't the worst being to inhabit the earth. Unless, of course, he was being penalized for caring too much about his appearance, which was unfair― really, really unfair.

"I'm hideous," he complained to his future spouse.

"You are not any such thing," stated Fleur, her eyes burning. "All ze scars show is zat you are brave and noble. Anyway, now you don't have to worry about people noticing zat you 'ave wrinkles when you get older."

"Yep, and just imagine how much money we'll be able to save on Halloween now that I don't need to purchase masks."

"See, zere are loads of benefits to your injury." Fleur stroked his hair. "By ze way, your mother said zat she could convince her Auntie Muriel to loan me a beautiful goblin-made tiara zat will offset my 'air well for ze wedding."

"Curse it! That means we'll have to invite Muriel to our wedding!"

"Your mother claimed zat Muriel was quite fond of you," remarked Fleur, her forehead knotting in bewilderment.

"Fleur, honey, haven't you learned by now that just because someone likes you, that doesn't mean that you reciprocate, or that you can even tolerate the person who likes you?" he asked seriously. Sighing, he added, "Ah, well, I guess we'll have to deal with her wrecking the ceremony with her shouted commentary on everything―"

"Oh, speaking of religious rituals, do you think zat you will be able to attend ze funeral?" Fleur inquired on a gasp.

"Funeral?" Bill repeated, searching the hospital wing for a corpse. "Whose funeral?"

"Dumbledore's," quavered Fleur.

"You forgot the punch line." Bill eyed her incredulously, because the notion of Dumbledore perishing was as incongruous with reality as the world without gravity. Dumbledore would persist, as stable and as timeless as any other force of nature, in teaching at Hogwarts long after Bill and the rest of his siblings had gone onto wherever souls went after their earthly containers died. Furthermore, Dumbledore could not possibly die in the middle of a war that he was required to provide leadership and inspiration in. The only man whom You-Know-Who was intimidated by could not leave this world until You-Know-Who had departed on a one-way journey to the hottest circle of hell. Surely, some supernatural, cosmic sense of justice decreed that it would be so. He had to cling to that, no matter what else occurred, or else he would have nothing left to anchor him.

"I wish I had," responded Fleur, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, "but I'm afraid zat Dumbledore has gone onto 'is 'eavenly reward, which I'm confident will be magnificent. I'm so sorry that 'e 'as died, Bill. I didn't know 'im very well, but I know zat 'e 'ad the courage to voice ze truth, even when it was unpopular to do so, and zat 'e willingly and unflinchingly paid ze price for 'is defiance of ze Ministry. And, during ze Triwizard Tournament, 'e eas always fair in 'is judging, and 'e was ze only one who didn't laugh at what you British saw as our peculiar French customs. For 'im and 'Arry, I had initially come to England to try to fight You-Know-Who."

"Don't feel too badly," Bill offered through numb lips as he bobbed his head to demonstrate that he understood her words. "After all, I didn't really know him that well, either. To be frank, I don't reckon that he actually had any equals that can claim to know the inner workings of his brilliant mind. Still, he was a good man, who always treated me kindly, even when he could have just ignored insignificant little me." Biting his lower lip, he wanted to know, "So, how did he die?"

"Snape killed him."

"That bastard!" Bill seethed. "Everyone told Dumbledore not to trust that slimy snake, but he wouldn't listen, and now he has paid the ultimate price for his idealism. If that traitorous slimeball comes anywhere near me, one of us dies, and I will do all I can to ensure that it's not me!"

The pair of them were silent for a moment, and Bill's parents and Ginny drifted back toward them. As the three Weasleys neared them, Fleur inquired, "Do you want me to get you anything from ze kitchens? You 'aven't eaten anything in hours."

"Now that you mention it, I am hungry to eat a whole cow."

"Remus explained to me zat you would 'ave wolfish tendencies, bit I didn't enviion zat it would be like zis," fretted Fleur. "We will waste so much money on groceries if…"

"It was an expression," he commented, as his sister, and his mum and dad settled themselves in the chairs clustered about his bedside. "For your edification, I wasn't planning on consuming an entire cow, although, since you suggested it, I will have some steak…very rare steak, mind."

"Consider it done." Fleur kissed his cheek before getting to her feet. "I will make certain zat ze house-elves do not overcook it, as ze English are wont to do with zeir meat." With that, she swept out of the hospital wing.

Ginny's eyes narrowed like a cat's as she departed, and Bill braced himself, anticipating a caustic observation. Yet, in the end, all she said was, "She loves you. Who would've thought?"

"Definitely not you, lioness, for you're too young to understand what love is," he teased her. He would have grinned at her, but he sensed that it would send needles of agony through his face.


	59. Chapter 59

Disclaimer: Nope, I haven't suddenly acquired Harry Potter

Disclaimer: Nope, I haven't suddenly acquired Harry Potter.

Author's Note: I decided to write this in the afternoon after I got dismissed early from my A.P. U.S. History test, which went fairly well, so I hope it turned out fine, and everything. Sorry if anyone disagrees with my funeral rite, since it is based on Catholic funeral practices, but I think for the most part it is pretty non-denominational, as Psalm Twenty-Three is in everyone's Bible, and it is even in the Torah, because it's in the Old Testament. Besides, I couldn't resist putting it in, because it was read at my grandfather's funeral, and it made me sob, but it also made me feel better…I think it is my favorite Psalm, actually. (Wow, I used 'because' a lot. I must find a new conjunction.)

Reviews: I'd love to hear from you, if you have the time, as always.

The Valley of Death

Five days later, Bill headed down to Dumbledore's funeral on the grounds of the school that he had given so much to, alongside Fleur. They slipped into seats in about the fiftieth row with the mass of Hogwarts students several rows behind them, his parents to the side of them, and Remus and Tonks, who were holding hands, in the chairs before them. "Are they going out?" Bill hissed in his fiancée's ear, nodding at the couple before them.

"Yes, I think so," she answered, as Bill noted with disgust that many Ministry members who had spent much of the previous year reviling Dumbledore were present, obviously feigning bereavement over a man they had loathed. "I believe zat Remus has realized zat since 'e was trapped between a rock and a hard place, it was preferable to run ze risk of hurting Tonks in love, rather zan continuing to injure zem both by rejecting her. If you ask me, it is another perk of your werewolf bite."

Bill's response was severed by the commencement of the rite. A priest with gray hair situated himself at the front of the congregation, and began Dumbledore's eulogy. At first, Bill strove to listen and reflect on the words, despite the complication resulting from the fact that at least half of the words trailed away on the wings of the miuld summer's wind prior to crashing lightly upon his ears, but the pieces he could hear held little significance for him: "Incredible advances in magic," and "brilliant mind," and other such rot.

It wasn't that the words weren't accurate, he mused. Rather, it was merely that they seemed to be an unfit, hollow tribute to Hogwarts' best and most beloved headmaster, and it was as though the priest was describing the achievements as opposed to the character of Allbus Dumbledore, rendering an incomplete image of the man. In short, the priest had neglected to address the purity of his heart and soul, which had been whiter even then his beard.

Then, to his chagrin, Bill's attention was riveted by a gaggle of white butterflies that fluttered about them all, and a handful of fragile early summer flowers at his feet. For some reason, they resembled a more fitting tribute to Albus Dumbledore than the sermon did, as they seemed to better highlight the delicate beauty, and tragically short nature of life better than any words ever could. Granted, Dumbledore had lived a long life, as far as human standards went, but human standards were not that much to go by. A century was a lengthy life for a person to live, but trees could live so much longer…and so could stars like the sun roasting the backs of all their necks now….and galaxies could go on for millennia…and the universe no doubt would persist in expanding and contracting until the end of time, which might not actually exist, now that he considered the matter. Still, maybe it was the shortness of things that made them attractive. Maybe it was the knowledge that the butterfly's beauty was fleeting that inspired such awe in people. Maybe it was the fact that a flower blossomed for only a few weeks or months that prompted humans to stare at them, and call them more beautiful than rubies and other fine jewels. Yes, it was probably the brevity of life that made people cherish it all the more…. But he really had to return his focus to the eulogy now.

Unfortunately, he discovered that this was something that was far easier to say than to accomplish. When he could not drag his lagging attention back to the sermon, he consoled himself with the fact that Dumbledore would probably not mind his fascination with the natural world. After all, the headmaster of Hogwarts probably would rather not be honored in a traditional manner, anyhow, since he had been nothing if not unorthodox in his life. Only a truly unconventional being would have refused the post of Minister of Magic however many times it was. Even Dumbledore's methods as head of the school had been unique, and simultaneously detached and hands-on.

At this point, Fleur detected his flagging interest, and nudged his foot with her sandaled one. "You forgot to say ze 'Our Father' with everyone else. Listen to ze rest of ze sermon."

Rolling his eyes, Bill complied with her wishes by attending once more to the priest's comments, and to his relief it appeared that the raspy-voiced old man was winding down at last, as he was announcing, "Now, we shall have one last reading from the Bible, which will provide us with consolation, and then those who wish may lay flowers on Dumbledore's grave after prayers." Clearing his throat, the man coughed, and then resumed, "Psalm Twenty-Three. 'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, and thy rod and thy staff comfort me. Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou aniontest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'"

As the priest shut his Bible, Bill revised his stance slightly about words providing no solace at a time like this. The phrases, strung together like that, conjured up images of an arcadia, of a pastoral paradise of eternal peace and joy, and he found that he was soothed. In David's time, the words had offered consolation in the face of death, and despair, and they did today, as well, in the wake of Dumbledore's death and You-Know-Who's legions of Death Eaters.

Then, a hauntingly, piercingly beautiful chorus of harmonious notes filled the air, and Bill discovered that it wasn't the caged bird that gave the world its saddest song. No, it was the grieving mermaids and mer-men that had emerged from the depths of the lake to offer their respects for Dumbledore in song. Although he did not understand Mermish, Bill could still detect the soulful melancholy that had been poured into the work. He could hear it in the highs and lows of it, as it carried him up and down with its ebbs and flows as if he were riding on an ocean current, dragging him from the fathoms of despair to the souring heights of achievement, and then tumbling back down to the earth so far below again, and then up again, and then down once more. Gosh, it was incredible how the mer-people had employed their grief to forge something so lovely, and it was obvious that they were torn by Dumbledore's passing, and very few beings could say that they had mer-people singing a dirge at their funeral. Of course, Dumbledore deserved it, after the way he had treated the mer-people.

As Bill arrived at this conclusion, he realized that the dirge had ended, and the mer-people were returning to their settlement in the lake without any more ceremony than they had displayed when they had emerged. As the mer-people returned to their watery home, the air was suddenly sliced in a hundred pieces, and, glancing up, Bill spotted too many flaming arrows to count soar through the air, and land by Dumbledore's pale marble sepulcher. He watched the fires blaze briefly, and then burn themselves out, and then he turned about in his seat just in time to catch a glimpse of the swishing tails of a herd of retreating centaurs, who had clearly just offered their final tribute to the headmaster, as much as the mer-people had.

"It's over, then," he muttered, stunned to Fleur, after a long moment of absolute silence. She didn't reply, as they both shoved themselves out of their chairs, and headed down the make-do aisle. However, they had barely gone a couple of paces, when Tonks called out to halt their progress.

"This is for you two," she stated, handing them a slip of purple parchment. "And these are for you both," she added, proffering another piece of parchment to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who had arrived behind Bill and Fleur. "We hope you'll all be able to attend."

Wondering what party Tonks was planning, and why she had suddenly taken to referring to herself in the first person plural, Bill opened the parchment, and read:

_Nymphadora Anne Tonks and Remus John Lupin _

_cordially invite you to attend their wedding _

_on July 16, 1997 at 11:30 in the morning_

_at the Northern Light Inn in Hogsmeade. _

For a moment, Bill just stared incredulously at the invitation, as if it were written in some alien tongue. Once he had absorbed this astounding uptake, he chuckled to Remus, "You dog, you really took the hat with abrupt marriages."

"What 'e means is congratulations," Fleur explained to Tonks and Remus, managing to beam at them, and scowl at him at the same time. "Sometimes 'e forgets 'ow to speak 'is own language. I apologize for 'im."

"You will be attending, then, I assume?" asked Lupin.

"Of course, we will be." Bill clapped Remus on the shoulder. "Who wouldn't jump at the chance for free catered food, as the goblins would point out? Anyway, I want to watch you mess up on your lines, before I ruin mine."

"There are basically no lines to mess up, for your information," retorted Remus. "All we have to do is say 'I do' when the priest asks us if we want to get married."

"Yes, and that will seem astonishingly complicated once everyone is staring at us," Bill educated him dryly.

"Stop it― you're making me nervous." Remus waved. "I'll see you all at the wedding at latest." With that, he set off with Tonks, his arm wrapped snugly about her waist, as Mrs. Weasley hollered after them, "Congratulations."

As they walked across the lawn back to the castle, Bill grumbled to Fleur, "I should have known that Mum would be fine with Tonks and Remus marrying each other when they've only been dating for a few days, but she wouldn't be okay with me wedding you when I had known you for a year."

"She came to terms with it in ze end, and zat is all zat matters," responded Fleur absently, tapping her finger against her upper lip thoughtfully. "Now, we 'ave to decide what on earth we are going to purchase as a wedding present for Tonks and Remus."

"No stress on that count. Didn't you say that our wedding gifts are starting to pour in?" he asked her. When she nodded, he continued, "So we'll just wrap up one we don't like for them, and send the person who gave it to us a nice thank-you note reading: 'Your present was more useful to us than you'll ever know.'"

"You are 'orrible," chided Fleur, although she was grinning. "Reusing gifts is so lame, and it certainly cannot be done for wedding presents."

"Very well, you win," Bill conceded, "but it was definitely worth a shot at saving money."

"You 'ave been slaving away for ze goblins far too long if you think zat way," his bride-to-be educated him grimly.


	60. Chapter 60

Disclaimer: Yes, I own Harry Potter, as well as the United States, Mexico, Canada, Latin America, and China.

Author's Note: Happy Mother's Day to all moms out there! (Poll: what should my brother and I purchase our mom for the holiday? We have until Tuesday, because we aren't celebrating until my older sister returns from Boston University. Best affordable idea, i.e. under 50, gets a dedication next chapter, and a virtual chocolate chip cookie.) Oh, yes, and Bill and Remus have a little, um, fun, at Remus' wedding for reviewer Lady Clark-Weasley. APs actually give me a lot of time to write, since I don't have any homework this weekend, except to study for them, and I can do that on Sunday.

Reviews: Are always welcome, and if you have any gift ideas, please tell me. Also, if you think that I should bump my rating up to "T" just mention it in your review, because I think my fic is currently in that nebulous area between "K+" and "T."

--

Fresh Starts

In the end, Bill and Fleur agreed to purchase a magical blender for Tonks and Remus. After learning that his mum and dad had bought a toaster oven for the new couple, Bill began to ponder what his family's obsession with culinary objects was precisely. However, such a puzzle lost its fascination to him on the morning when Tonks and Remus would become husband and wife, as he was preoccupied instead with pushing and pulling his various uncooperative limbs into his dress robes for the celebration.

In fact, he had just finished slipping his left arm into its appropriate sleeve, when someone knocked on his bedroom door. "Come in," he hollered, deciding not to check his mirror, since he already recognized that it would be impossible for him to appear handsome ever again in his lifetime. As he determined this, Fleur opened the door, and swept into his room with a waft of sweet perfume, immaculate in a shimmering silk dress, which had a cobalt sheen that emphasized her incredible sapphire eyes. Not to mention the fact that it fit her body very nicely indeed, he thought with a sudden, overpowering compulsion to touch every inch of her, preferably simultaneously.

"'Ow do I look?" she inquired innocently, leaning against him, so that their shoulder blades and hips collided, which, rather than lowering Bill's desire for her, increased it considerably.

"Even more stunning than usual," he reassured her, encircling his arms about her waist, and gently tugging her toward him, so that her back ended up against his chest, where she could hear his pounding heart. Then, smiling, he bent down and licked her nose mischievously.

"Stop zat," she ordered imperiously, ruining the impact by chuckling. "Zat's disgusting."

"Sorry, it's a new wolfish tendency of mine." He licked the nape of her neck, instead, now. "You should be flattered, though, because it translates into 'I love you.'"

"If it does, zen I guess I should do zis." Laughing, Fleur twisted in his clutches for a moment, so that she could lick his nose in response. "You see, I love you, too."

"And I'm more flattered than you will ever know," returned Bill somberly, although his eyes were dancing. When she twirled around so that her back was lying against him once more, he massaged her shoulder.

"Hmm…zat feels pleasant," she murmured, sighing in contentment. For a few seconds, the pair of them was silent, relishing the moment, and then she regained her brisk authority. "If you're going to be behind me, you may as well make yourself useful zere, Bill."

"I'm being very helpful," he protested. "For your information, I'm giving you the best massage you could hope for outside a first class spa."

However, Fleur ignored his objections, and shoved a pearl necklace he had given her that Christmas over her shoulder into his hands. "You may azzizt me in putting zis on."

Obediently, Bill accepted the jewelry, and clasped it for her, taking longer in this endeavor than was strictly necessary, wanting to benefit fully from the opportunity to brush his fingers along the tender skin of her neck. As he did so, he educated her, "I'm afraid that with this you will definitely outshine the unfortunate bride who was imprudent enough to invite you to her nuptials."

"I will do no such thing, you foolish, lovetruck man," she retorted, disengaging herself from him. "Now zat Tonks has stopped pining away for Remus, she is very beautiful, much like your little sister is pretty as she is nearing her womanhood."

"Except that Ginny will never wed, unlike Tonks," answered Bill grimly, as they exited his room, and headed downstairs to the Burrow kitchen, where they would meet the rest of the Weasley clan before departing for the marriage ceremony. "Well, technically, she'll marry Jesus when she becomes a nun, but that doesn't count, because the Son of God doesn't consummate his marriages, and, frankly, that's what I'm concerned about."

"You are 'orrible," Fleur informed him crisply, as they descended the stairs. "If you 'ad lived in medieval times, you would 'ave sent your little sister to live in a tower where a dragon would prevent 'er from leaving."

"Yep," he agreed, utterly unabashed, "only she would never be freed by any man's kiss, if I had my way."

Before she could reply, they arrived in the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Ron, and the twins were congested. The twins were attired in vibrant scarlet dress robes that clashed in a horribly comic fashion with their equally vivid hair. Mr. Weasley was in some old dress robes of his, and Mrs. Wesley was wearing a dark blue dress that matched the new witch's hat that Fred and George had bought her for Christmas. As for Ginny, she had donned a shamrock-colored gown that brought out her eyes and hair, and was far too low cut and revealing in Bill's opinion. "Are you certain you don't want to put on a shawl?" Bill asked her once he saw her outfit.

"No, shawls are so the 1800's," snorted Ginny.

"She looks lovely as she is, I think," Fleur added.

"Thanks. You don't look bad yourself." Ginny actually grinned at Fleur, something Bill never thought he would witness, as everyone reached for a handful of Floo Powder, and lined up to take turns stepping into the fire to travel to the Northern Light Inn, where Tonks and Remus were hosting their wedding.

Thirty minutes later, the Weasleys and Fleur were settled in a row of seats in the lobby of the inn, staring at Remus and his best man, who were standing at the front of the chamber, waiting for Tonks to progress down the aisle with her bridesmaids. Then, abruptly, silence fell through the fairly small crowd, as the door of the inn creaked open, and Tonks entered, seeming almost grateful, despite her typical clumsiness, her train carried by her two old school friends, Karen and Catharine. Indeed, Tonks would have been a normal bride walking carefully down the aisle, if it was not for the fact that she had chosen a gown of purple, rather than white. Clearly, Bill was not the only one who detected this, for Ron muttered, his face a tomato, "She's wearing purple? But brides are supposed to wear white. Other colors are only worn by―"

"Worn by who, Ronald?" Ginny hissed back, her eyes ablaze. "Don't be shy, and feel free to share your ignorant little opinions with the rest of us who haven't found an emergency exit yet. By the way, in case you're interested in getting one accurate thought in your otherwise hollow skull, brides only started donning white recently, after the Middle Ages. Before that, you could wear whatever you wanted. Besides, in Asian countries, brides wear red to symbolize good luck and stuff. You don't have to yammer on about stuff you don't understand."

"Yeah, but you might not have noticed that we live in England, Miss Terrible at Geography," whispered Ron, miffed. "You'll find it on a map next to Scotland and Wales, if you have the desire to look it up."

"Well, Tonks has always been a tad unconventional, hasn't she?" intervened Bill, before Ginny could fire back. "I mean, she asked Remus to wed her, rather than the other way around."

"Good for her," Ginny muttered, sticking up her nose haughtily. "Nobody likes to wait around for a man to finally get up his nerve to propose, especially not in the middle of a war, where any moment could be your last."

Not sure how to respond to this comment, Bill whispered, as Tonks neared the groom, "I wasn't aware that you knew so much about weddings in other cultures."

"When I realized that you were really going to marry Fleur, I decided that I ought to do some research into the marriage practices of other countries, and I was surprised by what I learned actually," she muttered in return. "I've come to see that you were right about most things being culturally relative."

At this juncture, Tonks stepped up beside Remus, her maids behind her like attractive body guards, and they lapsed into quiet, as the priest began the ceremony. Bill listened to the priest outline the obligations both partners in a marriage had to each other, and, then, before he knew what was happening, Remus was declaring "I do," and, then Tonks was doing the same….and then confetti in all the colors of the rainbow was falling upon all their heads, attaching itself to everyone's hair.

Once everybody had rose, the chairs vanished instantly, and were replaced, barely a millisecond later, by tables upon tables of meats, salads, pastas, and drinks. Grinning, Bill grasped Fleur's arm, and the two of them hurried over to the knot of people clustered about the newly-weds, handing over their wedding gifts.

"Congratulations," Bill told Tonks warmly, kissing her cheek when he and Fleur were finally at the front of the flock of well-wishers. "The best of luck to you, and much happiness."

"Thank you," she beamed at him, her face radiant. Her smile faltered a little, as she went on, "I wish that Charlie were here, though…I invited him, but he responded that he couldn't afford to take the time off, and that things were busy in Romania…he seemed sort of curt with me, to be honest."

"A dragon had probably just burned him, that's all," he soothed her. However, he had time to say no more, for Fleur had stepped up to congratulate Tonks, and Bill focused on Remus, instead. "And congratulations to you, old dog." He clapped Remus on the shoulder. "Enjoy your wedding night, huh?"

"Yeah, that's what people keep instructing me to do." Remus offered him a wane smile, which seemed terribly forced, and Bill wondered what could possibly be eating him on the day he married.

Unfortunately, he really did not have the time to discover the reason behind this anomaly, because there was a cluster of beings behind him and Fleur waiting to extend their congratulations to the newly-weds, and he did not want to hog Rmeus' time. Therefore, all he said was, "See you around."

An hour later, as he made his way over to the drinks table, Bill had an opportunity to unearth why Remus was conducting himself so peculiarly, for Remus was standing apart from everyone else, brooding into his empty wineglass.

"Do you want some champagne, or would you prefer to contemplate an empty glass, instead?" Bill inquired, poising the bottle of spirits over the other man's vessel after he had poured himself a decent serving.

"I'll have some now that you mention it, thanks." Remus nodded absently, and Bill loaded his glass, although he made no attempt to actually consume the liquid.

"What's troubling you?" frowned Bill, concerned for his friend.

"Nothing." Remus treated him to another patently fake smile.

"Yes, nothing is wrong with you, and my name is Merlin, and I'm back from the dead after all these centuries."

"If you must know, you nosy abomination, it is Tonks' parents that are worrying me," Remus confided in a low voice, glancing anxiously around them to ascertain that there were no eavesdroppers about. "I would be willing to gamble everything I own, which, coincidentally, is not much, although it is more now that I have had this wedding, that they do not approve of the match, and who could blame them? Who would want their only child, their only daughter, to marry a werewolf? And a poor one at that, not that my kind are renowned for our wealth?"

"I don't know what Fleur's parents will think about me and my bite, either," Bill replied by why of consolation.

"But at least you can guarantee that their grandchildren won't be dreadful werewolf cubs. You can even pass your injury of as a standard bit of war scars." A slight note of bitterness entered Remus' tone, as he drained his glass, and refilled it a second afterwards.

"Ah, well, don't fret." Bill emptied his glass, as well, and, mirroring his companion's movements, poured himself some more champagne. "There are relatively few problems that cannot be put into proper proportion after the right amount of alcohol, as my mentor Louis Blancheflor, a very wise man, would say."

"Cheers." Remus banged his glass against Bill's, before swallowing all of its remaining contents, and helping himself to another serving of it. "So, anyway, this would be a hell of a time to get married, even if we weren't who we are with this war being waged around us, and us a part of it."

"I couldn't have phrased it better myself." Bill filled his wineglass yet again. Feeling much calmer and much more detached than he typically did when discussing the Ministry, he resumed, "Do you suppose that it is true that high level members of the Ministry surrounding Scrimgeour have succumbed to mind control by the Death Eaters, and that the Ministry is bound to fall to a puppet government dictated by You-Know-Who within weeks?"

"Probably." There was a slur to Remus' remark now.

"Yeah, probably." Bill heard a slur in his own voice, as, undaunted, he reached out to pour himself some more champagne, consequences be damned. What a funny idea that was, actually, consequences. What were consequences again? Oh, they were silly things that would certainly not impact him, for he was undoubtedly strong enough to overcome them. At any rate, he felt like he was powerful enough to do so at the moment, and that was all that really mattered, anyhow. "Doesn't matter, though, in the end, does it? Harry will handle it, and it'll be a happy ending for everyone."

"Everyone except You-Know-Who." Remus laughed wildly.

"Right." Bill offered a shrill bark of mirth in response, not entirely sure what he was so amused out, but confident that his brain would figure it out in a little while. After that, they did not say anything, because there was no need to. All they did was stand silently side-by-side, drowning their worst fears in wine. At the back of his mind, in the sector of his brain that seemed to be defiant of alcohol's effects, Bill recognized that this was hardly a prudent course of action, because his sorrows would not disappear, and his problems would in reality be compounded by the intense headaches and stomachaches that came with a hangover in the morning. Still, he was buying himself a temporary vacation from his troubles, and that was all he required at the moment, the rest of his body snapped at the prudish minority of his brain, he wasn't asking for eternal happiness in the bottle, just temporary solace.

This appeared to satisfy the tiny, protesting voice in his head, for it ceased plaguing him, and he was able to drink his way through three more servings of wine, before Fleur caught sight of him, and dragged him over to a chair at a table far away from any alcoholic beverages, as Tonks, grumbling did the same with her husband. His mind blurred as Fleur lectured him about appropriate conduct at weddings, and, eventually, she must have given up on him, and centered all her attention upon hiding him from view. Later on, the next afternoon, when he had shaken off his hangover, he would thank her immensely for shielding him from his mother's wrath and the dreadful duo's taunts, but at the moment, denied his wine, he dropped his head upon the table, and slept like a baby.


	61. Chapter 61

Disclaimer: I Tarzan, you Jane

Disclaimer: I Tarzan, you Jane. I no own Harry Potter, you no own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: My brother and I purchased my mother flowers, and a cookbook, and made her a nice card, so I guess it's a three-way tie for the dedication between reviewers GoddessofYouth, Shetlandlace, and xxx-fifi-xxx. You each can get your very own virtual cookie, too. (Aren't I generous?) By the way, my Internet was not working for several days, so if you left me a review in that time period, that's why I didn't answer it. It was nothing personal, and I shall try to get around to responding to you as soon as I can. Thanks for your understanding. Oh, and A.P.S are done. Huzzah!

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to my loyal reviewers GoddessofYouth, Shetlandlace, and xxx-fifi-xxx, who kept me alive through another Mother's Day, which means I'm luckier than Mad-Eye.

Reviews: I would love to hear from you, but I understand if you don't have time to do so, or if you just found something intriguing on the television.

--

A Cold Night in July

On the evening of July 20th, after Mrs. Weasley had admitted him into the Burrow, Mad-Eye Moody plunked, his peg leg that seemed to have emerged directly from a Muggle pirating fable thudding against the floor, into a chair in the crowded kitchen, and, despite the fact that at least half the Order was assembled about the table, shouted, "Any lunatic participating in Operation Desert Fox Torch get your behind in here now, or I'll curse it off for you!"

"Operation _what_?" Tonks echoed, blinking at him as though he had suddenly transfigured himself into a viper.

"Operation Desert Fox Torch, of course." Moody's extra eye at the rear of his head swiveled to scan the room, ascertaining that there were no covert spies hidden in a cupboard, before he mouthed at his protegee, "Also referred to as Operation Pick-up Potter."

"Oh, I thought we were calling it Operation Anaconda," Bill mumbled, sipping iced tea, because Fleur was currently prohibiting him from consuming alcoholic beverages, somewhat exasperated with Moody's constant vigilance, which bordered upon insanity.

"That's what it was called before, but I fear that the Death Eaters may have cracked that one, so it would be prudent for us to alter the name by which we refer to it," explained Moody.

Before Bill could hint that Moody's paranoia could rival Fudge's, although it, fortunately, was not accompanied with a liberal dose of denial, Tonks interjected brusquely, "A very judicious decision, I'm sure, that I'd love to hear the rationale behind some other time, but, please permit me to remind you that your allies, like your adversaries, won't have a clue what you're babbling on about, either, if you insist on switching the name of every top-secret activity several times a day."

"After all the years I've served as an Auror, I am aware of what is required to successfully combat the Dark Arts: constant vigilance," growled Moody, glowering at the two younger adults. "Anyhow, in this case, the name change is fitting, because I'm afraid we're going to have to modify our plan considerably."

For a few seconds, silence greeted this update, and then Remus demanded quietly, "Why must we alter our plan? What's happened?"

"Pius Thicknesse has been placed under the Imperius Curse by Death Eaters," Moody educated him, scowling at the thought. "Obviously, that means that we can no longer connect Potter's house to the Floo Network, as that would land us all in Azkaban, and then there would be nobody left to resist You-Know-Who, and I love my country too much to let something like that happen to it."

"Can we Apparate, then?" suggested Fred or George. "Or employ a Portkey, instead?"

"We could do that, though, of course that would also land us in Azkaban, as well, as those things also are imprisonable offenses now." Moody shook his head at the twin's proposal. His mouth twisted bitterly, making it even more grotesque than usual. "It's all done in the name of Potter's protection, ironically enough, as if his mother's charm doesn't do more to shield the lad than the Ministry could ever do, and as though everyone with an ounce of logic can't see that the measure is being taken to trap Harry, rather than protect him."

"So what are we going to do?" frowned Tonks. Cursing, she ran a hand through her cropped hair, messing it up entirely. "Blast, this isn't modifying the plan, as much as it is re-hatching it completely in next to no time at all!"

"And he's still got the Trace on him, so he can't exercise magic to leave," her husband added, pouring himself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher in the center of the table. "Yet, we can't wait for the Trace to break when he comes of age, because once he's seventeen his mother's protective charm will not function properly. We're caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea."

Again, everyone was quiet, and then Hermione Granger, who had arrived at the Burrow two days previously, cleared her throat, and hedged, "Um, maybe—maybe a simple solution is best. Perhaps Harry could just fly away from Privet Drive, as he is brilliant on a broomstick. From what I've read, flying on a broom isn't detected by the Trace, since it's not technically using magic."

"There is a reason why you are termed the cleverest witch in your year, Hermione," Remus grinned slightly at the addressed. "I think your plan might work, although I reckon that he should go to a safe house—one with a minimal connection with the Order—where he can catch a Portkey back to the Burrow, which would make his trail harder to follow for the Death Eaters and the Ministry, if they can even be perceived as differing entities anymore."

"Hmmm. That could work, that could very well work," mused Moody, tapping his upper lip thoughtfully. "Though we would need to lay a fake trail...we'll have to set up several houses, each with a slight tie to the Order, as destinations, so that the Death Eaters won't be able to guess which one Potter will travel to."

"They'll know once Harry soars off in that direction, even if they don't know initially," Ron pointed out on an eye roll.

"Not if we have several Potters," Mundungus Fletcher, who had remained silent up until this point, informed him wryly.

"But that's impossible," stuttered Ron, staring at the smelly sneak thief as if he had lost his mind.

"No, it's not," Mundungus replied, shaking his head. "Polyjuice Potion would transform people into Harry, as long as he consented to giving the hairs."

"Which he would never do," snorted Ron, "so the plan is ruined now. We might as well start planning the back-up one now, because Harry would never let anyone risk their necks for him."

"Then we'll take the hairs by force if need be," snarled Moody, and everybody in the kitchen looked discomfited at the notion, though nobody voiced an objection, since what was necessary was necessary in a time of war. When no one interrupted him, he continued, "Fourteen of us should do it, as that will make it appear as if seven different Harrys are travelling in opposite directions at once...Any volunteers for the role of a Potter?"

"Are there auditions?" Fred inquired eagerly.

"No," snapped the grizzled Auror.

"Ah, well, I'll still be happy to play the part of the Boy Who Lived." Unfazed by Moody's animosity, Fred shrugged. "I'm guaranteed to receive loads of requests for autographs, in that case."

"I'll be delighted to be a Harry, also," contributed George. "Then, Fred and I will really be identical."

"You're identical already, George," smiled his father indulgently.

"We are not," Fred insisted vehemently. "I'm way better looking than he is, Dad, and I'm wounded that you can't tell us apart, and we still have to call you our father."

"Perhaps we could progress onto more important issues," Moody barked.

"I'll be another Harry." Ron raised his hand as though he were in school, waiting for a professor to call on him in class.

His mum went ashen at this. "Ronnie, honey, you can't—"

"Yes, I can, Mum," established Ron, gritting his teeth, and glaring at her. "I'm of age, remember."

Before Mrs. Weasley could counter this, Hermione had stated tremulously, "I shall be the fourth Harry."

"You're an amazingly brave witch, Hermione," commented Ron, squeezing her fingers. To conceal his smile at his brother's attempts at flirtation, Bill buried his nose in his glass of iced tea.

"Thanks, Ron." Apparently, Hermione did not mind Ron's botched flirting tactics, for she beamed at him. "You're every bit as brave as I am, though, since you just volunteered to do the same thing." At her words, the youngest Weasley boy puffed out his chest like a proud penguin, and Bill was careful not to actually drink any iced tea, because, no doubt, it would come sailing out of his nose as he snorted in amusement, and christen everyone in the vicinity, including his future bride.

Fortunately, Fleur diverted his attention a second later, when she announced, "I will be 'appy to serve as ze fifth 'Arry."

"I beg your pardon?" Bill eyed her skeptically.

"Don't worry," she reassured him, stroking his arm soothingly. "You'll be zere to protect me."

"That's not what's troubling me," he told her, "because I am aware that you are perfectly capable of defending yourself, but they're _flying_, Fleur, and you hate that, remember?"

"Zere are other ways to fly besides broomsticks," maintained Fleur, sticking up her nose. "At Beauxbatons, we 'ad massive 'orses that we could ride, and I did not mind zem, because zey seemed much more solid― and it was 'arder for me to see ze ground so far below, so I did not get dizzy, as I would on a broom."

"I could get her one of the school's thestrals," remarked Hagrid, his nose buried in his tankard of Firewhiskey, from the corner of the room that he had all to himself, due to his great size.

"Thank you, I appreciate zat."

Before the gamekeeper could respond, Hermione requested, "Hagrid, could you bring me a thestral, also, as broomsticks really aren't my thing."

"Sure." Hagrid bobbed his shaggy head in acquiescence.

"Anyone else who wishes to participate who happens to hate riding a broomstick, speak now or forever hold your peace." Moody glared around at the assembly. When nobody spoke after a moment's pause, he plowed on, "Right, well, I reckon that we have about enough Potters. What we need now are wizards and witches to accompany the decoys, just as we have one protect Harry. Those two lovebirds―" he jabbed his finger at Bill and Fleur― "seemed to have already paired up, so that leaves only a few more Potters to go. Now, who wants to be a guard?"

"I'll be one." Tonks raised her hand excitedly, knocking over the iced tea pitcher, and, swearing, she righted it, and cleaned the spill with an impatient flick of her wand.

"Good, you'll go with Ron," declared Moody.

"I can take the night away from the Muggle Prime Minister," announced Kingsley in his deep rumble. "Harry's more important."

"You'll be with Hermione on her thestral, in that case."

"I take it you will be going with Harry, then?" Kingsley inquired.

"No." Moody shook his head. "That's what the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who would expect us to do: send Harry with the most experienced Aurors we've got. Therefore, we must have someone unexpected accompany Potter."

"I'll go with Harry on me motorcycle." Hagrid swung his mug up in the air, and some Firewhiskey sloshed onto the floor. "Arthur has just finished adding some special tricks to it, so we'll have some twists to throw at the Death Eaters."

"Good." Moody looked around the kitchen once more. "Any more volunteers?"

Bill saw his father exchange a significant glance with his mother, before stating, "I will be happy to serve as a guard for someone, if necessary."

"You're with Fred, then."

"I'll be the last guard," Remus contributed softly.

"And you'll go with George." At this point, Moody frowned, and mumbled, "Perhaps it would be best if we had one more decoy group. Yes, it would. That's it, then. Mundungus, you'll be the last Potter, and I'll be your guard."

"But," stuttered Dung.

"No buts, I've made up my mind," snarled Moody, and Mundungus fell quiet, although he looked discontented.

"An excellent plan, Moody." Tonks pushed her chair away from the table, and rose, her spouse barely an inch behind her. "Well, see you tomorrow, everybody."

The next evening, a half hour prior to the time they were supposed to meet Harry, everyone involved in "Operation Desert Fox Torch" or whatever Moody was calling it at the moment, met at the Burrow with their brooms, or their thestrals and motorcycle, if they happened to be Hagrid. Everyone cast Disilusionment Charms upon themselves, and then mounted their mode of transportation.

To Bill's relief, the journey to Harry's house was uneventful, and twenty-five minutes later, he was helping Fleur, who, despite her words about not minding riding winged horses, was looking a shade greener than usual, to the ground. After landing, it took Bill a second to adapt to the steadiness and the motionlessness of the planet. Apparently, Fleur was having similar difficulties, for the second after he released her, she snatched up his arm, anchoring herself against him. By the time they had regained their bearings, Harry had emerged from the Dursleys' residence, and had embraced Hermione, and clapped Ron on the back in greeting.

"I wasn't expecting this many of you!" Harry exclaimed, beaming around at everybody, once he had exchanged greetings with Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid.

"Change of plan," growled Moody by way of clarification. He pointed a scarred finger at the house. "Let's get undercover before we talk you through it."

Obediently, Harry guided them into the kitchen, where everyone settled themselves on the seats, the spotless table, or the squeaky-clean counter. As Bill sat down beside Fleur, he saw Harry glance about the room, taking inventory of who was present. Within a minute after they arrived in the kitchen, Moody had quieted the hubbub of shouting, and he was detailing the plan to Harry, whose jade eyes were contracting as he listened, and when he heard about other beings pretending to be him by way of Polyjuice Potion, he folded his arms across his chest, and, obviously not desiring anyone to be hurt on his behalf, shouted, "No! No way!"

Here Ron and Hermione rolled their eyes at one another, and several Order members, Bill included, fought to stifle grins. Enraged by their reaction, Harry continued furiously, "If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives―"

"Because it's the first time for all of us," snorted Ron.

"This is different," Harry scowled at his best friend, "pretending to be me―"

"Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry," Fred stated, at his most serious. "Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever."

If this was intended to loosen Harry up, it had the exact opposite net result, for Harry's face became even harder, more intent in purpose, so that he did not appear to be a boy, but rather a man, and a very compelling one, at that. "You can't do it if I don't cooperate. You need me to give you some hair."

"Well, that's that plan scuppered." George feigned dejection. "Obviously, there's no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate."

"Yeah," Fred agreed sarcastically, "thirteen of us against one bloke who's not allowed to use magic; we've got no chance." Despite his words, Bill doubted that Fred, or anyone else in the room, would pull their wands against Harry. After all, they wanted to protect the boy, not injure him, and besides, if You-Know-Who couldn't defeat Harry, maybe they really did not have a chance.

"Funny," commented Harry flatly, "really amusing."

"If it has to come to force, then it will," growled Moody, who must have had enough of the argument. Hopefully, Harry would not call their bluff, Bill thought. "Everyone here is overage, Potter, and they're all prepared to take that risk." At these words, Mundungus shifted uncomfortably, implying that he did not really wish to imperil his own hide, and the aged Auror's extra eye fixed a cold glower upon him. Once Mundungus had retreated, banging into the counter, Moody continued, "Let's have no more arguments. Time's wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now."

"But this is mad!" Harry protested, a little more weakly. "There's no need―"

"No need!" Moody interrupted, as if he could not believe his ears. "With You-Know-Who out there, and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we're lucky, he'll have swallowed the fake bait, and he'll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he'd be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out― it's what I'd do. They might not be able to get at you, or this house while your mother's charm holds, but it's about to break, and they know the rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can't split himself into seven."

For some reason, Harry shot Hermione a peculiar, sideways glance at this juncture, and Bill wondered what secret they were sharing…You-Know-Who didn't have some new, awesome power that the Order did not know about yet, did he? Surely, Harry would have told them, if You-Know-Who had learned how to divide himself, so that he could occupy several places at once, as that was very important information…

However, Bill lost the opportunity to ponder the full implications of the look that passed between the two teenagers, because Moody, who must have missed the glance, ordered, "So, Potter, some of your hair, if you please."

The "please" did not make it optional, and Harry must have sensed this, because, with a grim expression on his face, he finally relented, and tugged out a hank of unruly, jet-black hair, and placed it in the flask of ready-made Polyjuice Potion. When the locks were added, the mudlike surface started frothing, then smoked, and finally turned as gold as Galleons.

At Moody's command, five of the fake Potters lined up by the gleaming sink, and a squirming Mundungus was dumped unceremoniously beside them by Hagrid a millisecond later. To Bill's amusement, the odiferous Dung landed next to his fiancée, who wrinkled up her nose distastefully, and moved down the line to stand between the twins, instead. Once Moody had silenced Dung's last minute protests, tiny cups of Polyjuice Potion were handed to each of the pretend Potters, who gobbled down their drinks as one unit. When the liquid made contact with their throats, they all gasped, and grimaced, and Bill fought the overpowering urge to race toward his bride.

He lost the chance to do so when her face, like those of her fellow decoys, began to bubble and distort like burning candle wax. Hermione and Mundungus, both of whom were shorter than Harry, were shooting upward, whereas Ron, Fred, and George were shrinking every bit as rapidly. Their hair was transformed to Harry's color, and Fleur and Hermione's was flying back into their scalps in what seemed to be an excruciatingly painful process. While the Polyjuice Potion worked its magic, Moody opened the satchel containing Harry clothing, and when her transfiguration was complete, Fleur studied her reflection in the microwave, and then, careless of insulting Harry, told Bill, "Bah, don't look at me―I'm 'ideous."

Bill grinned at this, thinking it was ironic that she should be worried about how she looked, when he was the one whose face had been completely marred by Fenrir Grayback. Before he could reply, Moody had shouted, "Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I've got smaller here." He indicated another one of his sacks. "And vice versa. Don't forget the glasses. There's six pairs in the side pocket. And when you're dressed, there's luggage in the other sack."

Instantly, the six pretend Potters hurried to comply with Moody's orders, yanking out sets of clothes, shoving on glasses, and stuffing their own clothing into the bags. All of them changed with far more ease than they would have done had it been their own bodies they were displaying, Bill noted. Harry must have felt the same way, for his cheeks were flushed, and several times, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but always ended up saying nothing. Once everyone was finally dressed, they walked back out into the garden, and divided up into their pairs. Bill assisted Fleur in mounting their thestral, and then climbed onto the skeletal winged horse himself.

The cold air whipped their faces as they rose up into the night. Then, it seemed as though the darkness itself was moving as thirty hooded figures, decked out in black, descended upon them, outnumbering the Order members by a considerable margin. Reflexively, Bill withdrew his wand from the pocket of his robes, and, behind him, he felt Fleur do the same thing. They both ducked a Killing Curse, and sent hexes of their own at the herd of Death Eaters. One of their targets toppled off his broom, falling down toward the earth, and, screaming like a banshee, the Death Eater next to him attempted to grab a hold on his companion, even as he plunged to the ground. Taking advantage of the distraction, Bill spurred the thestral onward. Unfortunately, a half a dozen Death Eaters trailed after them.

As Bill shot a Stunning Spell at one of their followers, and Fleur sent a Stinging Hex at another, he spotted Moody and Dung flying nearby, surrounded by their own pack of Death Eaters. Like Bill and his companion, Moody fired spells at his assailants, but Mundungus, being the traitorous coward that he was, Disapparated instantly, a panicked expression on his every feature. Casting a curse at another one of their Death Eaters and deflecting a hex that was sailing toward him, Bill watched as Moody pivoted to look at the empty air where Dung had been a second ago, and how he kept his back to his foes for a second too long, which allowed the Death Eaters to hit him with a curse that sent him reeling…reeling off his broomstick, down toward the ground…No, this was a bad dream, a nightmare. This wasn't possible― the man who preached "Constant vigilance" could not violate his own mantra long enough for it to be the death of him, and, anyway, Moody could not perish, because the Order needed him too much now that Dumbledore had passed on to greener pastures.

"Bill, we 'ave to 'elp 'im!" Fleur gasped, her pupils widening, as she absently blocked and returned a Death Eater's spell.

"There's no point," he mumbled back, his lips numb. "He's fallen too much by now, and we won't be able to grab him. If the shock of the falling, and the pressure of the air upon him doesn't kill him, then the impact will."

Voicing this finally drove home the reality of Moody's death, and Bill felt an incredible ire rise up inside him. The Death Eaters had killed Moody and Dumbledore, and he would make them pay for their actions, regardless of how much that smacked of vengeance. With an efficiency he had never known he could maintain in a circumstance like this, he sent the remaining four Death Eaters on their tail to join Moody within four minutes. Then, the survival mode kicked off, and he was left feeling hollow, and hopeless. Leaning his head against Fleur's quaking shoulder, he observed, "When we get back to the Burrow, and I've told everyone― what's happened― I'm getting my hands on a mug of Firewhiskey, no matter what you say on the contrary, because this definitely deserves a drink."

"It deserves several," Fleur confirmed shakily, "as many as it takes to forget it so you can sleep at night, and so you don't tremble like you 'ave epilepsy." Silence filled the air between them for a moment, before she whispered, "Do you think that Mundungus betrayed us to ze Death Eaters, given ze speed with which 'e disappeared?"

For a moment, Bill frowned as he considered this, but in the end he concluded, "No, he can't have betrayed us, because he was the one who proposed that we use the Polyjuice Potion, remember? So, if it was him, why wouldn't he have explained to the Death Eaters the essential point of using it: to have multiple Potters? And, obviously, they didn't know about the decoys, because that seemed to confuse them when they showed up. Also, while he was at it, why didn't he tell the Death Eaters who Harry was with, since he would know that? All in all, no, he can't have betrayed us, although we should never trust the smelly sneak again, if you ask me, since he fled like that."

"But ze Death Eaters knew zat we were rescuing 'Arry tonight." Fleur nibbled on her lower lip. "Zat means zat somebody slipped about our plans."

"When we return to the Burrow, we'll see what everyone else thinks." Bill scanned the area around them, and then remarked, "We may as well fly the thestral back, as we are closer to the Burrow than to the safe house, and, anyway, I think we've missed our Portkey."

"Zat sounds fine by me," Fleur answered, as tears started to flow down her cheeks. "I 'ate zis war. I 'ate everything about it. All ze good people are dying all around us, and the evil people just keep getting stronger. It's not fair, at all."

Bill could invent nothing meaningful to express in response to this, and so he merely remained silent, and they did not speak further, until they arrived at the Burrow, where they swept into the garden, and dismounted, relieved to finally return home safely, even though Bill was not exactly looking forward to being the bearer of bad news and death. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Tonks, Remus, and his parents were all standing there, waiting for them to arrive, and he was overcome by relief to see them all there, perfectly whole, although he wondered with a pang where Kingsley and the twins were.

"Bill! Thank God, thank God―" wailed Mrs. Weasley, charging forward to throw her arms around him.

Wanting to get the worse over with quickly, while he could still speak, Bill gave her a squeeze, and announced tersely, his eyes riveted on his father, because he was afraid to focus on anyone else, "Mad-Eye is dead."

Everybody stared at him in disbelief, their eyes demanding further elaboration. Complying with their nonverbal wishes, he explained, feeling oddly detached as though it was somebody else telling the story, about how Moody had met his end. When he finished telling the tale, they all stood awkwardly about, not glancing at each other, before they finally wandered back into the house behind Bill's parents, more zombies than humans.

"Where are Kingsley and the twins?" Bill muttered to Remus as they entered the Burrow. "Are they hurt, or―"

"Kingsley has gone back to the Muggle Prime Minister," Remus reeled off, "Fred is fine, but George, well, he, um―"

"What?" pressed the other, somewhat impatiently due to his nervousness, because he could not bear it if something dreadful had happened to his little brother, even if George was more demon than angel.

"He―he lost his ear."

"Why does God hate our family so much, anyway?" grumbled Bill as they reached the living room, and he walked over to the sideboard, determinedly not glancing at George, who was seated on the sofa alongside his twin, for fear that he would lose any semblance of composure, and pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey, and glasses for everyone. Maybe alcohol would fill the void in each of them. Well, it was worth a shot, anyhow, and wasn't that a clever double entendre?

"Here," he said when he finished pouring thirteen glasses of Firewhiskey, sending twelve of them to the other occupants of the room with a twist of his wand, and holding thirteenth aloft in a toast. "Mad-Eye."

"Mad-Eye," they all echoed softly, and then everybody sipped as one.

For awhile, they all consumed their drinks lost in their own worlds, trying to get some life burned back into them by the Firewhiskey, before Remus asked for confirmation that Mundungus had indeed disappeared, implying that Dung was a traitor. Sighing, Bill forced himself to repeat what he had expressed to Fleur on the ride home, which lead Tonks into reflecting upon how wise her former mentor had been to devise such a rescue plan, and then Fleur was reasserting that there must have been someone who slipped, which lead them no closer to discovering the actual traitor.

At this time, Harry seemed to take umbrage at the notion of a traitor being in their midst, because he established firmly, "No, I mean if somebody made a mistake, and let something slip, I know they didn't mean to do it. It's not their fault. We've got to trust each other. I trust all of you. I don't think anyone in this room would ever sell me to Voldemort."

Bill contemplated his whiskey, thinking that Harry was correct that there were dangers inherent in mistrusting each other, but there were also problems entailed in trusting too much. It was a fine line that they walked, then, and he hoped that they were all natural tight rope walkers. Obviously, he was not the only one considering the merits of Harry's words, because the room was quiet for awhile until Fred commented, raising his goblet in a toast, "Well said, Harry."

"Yeah, 'ear, 'ear," smirked George, who was clearly willing to make a joke at the expense of his lost ear, which, to Bill's relief, seemed to suggest that he was dealing well enough with his loss.

However, Remus did not agree for he was eyeing Harry with a pitying expression. Harry must have detected the look as well, for he demanded of Remus, "You think I'm a fool?"

"No, I think you're like James." Based on his tone, Remus did not intend for this assessment to be a compliment, and Harry's flush demonstrated that he comprehended this fact. "He would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Remus was not paying any attention to him, because he was focusing on Bill, instead, now. "There's work to be done." His eyes scanned Bill for a moment, probably feeling that Bill might be too traumatized by the evening's experience to take part in the search for Mad-Eye's body, and he amended, "I can ask Kingsley whether―"

"No," Bill interjected, setting down his goblet with enough firmness that Remus did not question him. "I'll do it. I'll come."

"Where are you going?" inquired Tonks and Fleur in one voice, as the two men got to their feet.

"Mad-Eye's body," Remus educated them in a clipped manner. "We need to recover it."

"Can't it―?" Bill's mum appealed of him, obviously wanting him close by at a time like this, and Bill combated the urge to roll his eyes into his sockets.

"Wait?" He completed the question for her with a little more acidity than was typical with him. "Not unless you'd rather the Death Eaters took it?"

Apparently, she did not want the Death Eaters to confiscate Moody's corpse, for she made no objection, and he and Remus said their farewells, and left the house. Out on the lawn, they remounted two of the faster broomsticks, and headed off to the area where Bill and Fleur had seen Moody fall to the ground like a rag doll. However, once they landed there, they did not find any corpse within a mile radius, and, eventually the gathering darkness forced them to surrender.

"The Death Eaters must have gotten here first," Remus mumbled as they climbed back onto their brooms, "and they must have taken his body."

"Yes, or else they have hidden it really well." Bill nodded as they rode off into the chilly night. A sigh tore out of him. "Merlin, though, I wish we could have recovered it, because Mad-Eye deserved a proper burial, and, heavens knows, the Death Eaters won't provide him with one."

"It's a great tragedy in life that nobody ever gets what they deserve," answered Remus, shaking his head, and blinking hard, either due to the wind or to grief, or a combination of the two factors.

"If we keep fighting, maybe someday they will."

"Maybe." Remus did not sound altogether convinced of this, but Bill did not know how to strengthen his stance in the wake of recent events, and so he remained silent, something he seemed to be doing a lot of lately, especially on this cold night in July. But it was not his fault that silence said far more than words ever could express.


	62. Chapter 62

Disclaimer: Yes, I wrote Harry Potter

Disclaimer: Yes, I wrote _Harry Potter_. By the way, I also penned _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Macbeth_.

Reviews: It is actually sad how much a review can brighten me after a long day's work, so if you have time, please review my work.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing a lot lately, but what else am I supposed to do when I basically have no homework after APs, and my friends are all on vacation, and I'm stuck here? After this, comes the birthday, and the wedding, never fear.

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One Big Family

Weddings were definitely not worth the hassle they created, Bill Weasley reflected sourly, as he struggled with Ron's aid to tidy the shed that had not been purged in many years. Apparently, his little brother harbored similar sentiments of animosity toward their task and marriages in general, for he grumbled irascibly as he removed a perilous mountain of rusty junk to reach the earthen floor, "Why in the world must we waste our time doing this, huh? That's what I asked Mum, and she insisted that I had to slave like a house-elf out here, because you and Fleur are getting married on our lawn, and soon the Delacours will be arriving. Well, I already know that, for Merlin's sake, but, honestly, are you wedding Fleur in a shed?"

"Nope," Bill replied as he reorganized a bunch of ancient pails that probably no Weasley had utilized in the last century on an equally aged wooden shelf. "However, if you're interested in being updated on the latest wedding bulletins, you ought to speak with my fiancée. She decides everything; I just nod and follow her every command. Truly, it is a husband's lot in life to heed his wife's every order, so I have no idea what the feminists are complaining about."

"Whatever. I'm going to assume that nobody in their right or left mind would want to host their wedding in here, although Hermione claims that she desires her wedding to occur in a _library_." Ron shook his head as he expressed this final sentence.

"Are you two already discussing marriage ceremonies?" his older sibling whistled. "Wow, things between you and Hermione are progressing rapidly. Obviously, that book the dreadful duo purchased for you is working like a charm."

"It's not so odd that the prospect of marriage might have cropped up― fleetingly, mind you― in Hermione and my conversations, since we've been laboring like madmen to get everything in order for your wedding." Despite his best attempts at sounding nonchalant and indifferent, Ron's true emotions were revealed by his crimson cheeks and ears, which attested to the depths of his admiration of Hermione Granger. "Though, if you must know, we have never discussed the ridiculous notion of our marital plans ever coinciding."

"I see," responded Bill, turning his back on the teenager to shield his smirk from view.

Still, Ron must have been humiliated by how much of his heart had been displayed during their brief exchange, for he mumbled, "I've just about had it with Mum! She is intentionally preventing Harry, Hermione, and I from completing far more significant tasks―"

"Such as preparing for going on a quest that was apparently handed to Harry by none other than Albus Dumbledore?"

For a minute, Ron stared at him as if he had never interacted with a fellow human before, and, then, he stammered, "I― that is― I can't tell you that."

"Of course you can't, because then it wouldn't be top-secret anymore," chuckled Bill. "However, don't fret, as the manner in which you gaped at me provided me with answer enough."

"You're my least favorite brother, you know," Ron scowled.

"Hold on. Did you seriously just imply that you prefer the trouble twins to me?" Bill inquired, as he finished rearranging the buckets, and commenced placing stray hammers and screwdrivers into the toolbox.

"Yes, I did, and I meant it." While he battled to fold up a picnic blanket, Ron gritted his teeth, which added much to his hostile tone.

"Little bro, there's a reason why wizards have these brilliant new inventions called wands, or so I hear." Rolling his eyes in a parody of despair, the elder Weasley waved his wand lazily at the blanket, which folded itself meekly at his unspoken order. When Ron glowered at him, he merely smiled, and pressed, "Does Perce rank higher than me, also?"

"He doesn't count, and you are aware of that, as he has disowned us, and we've disowned him," snapped Ron, "but of the brothers that still acknowledge me, and that I still acknowledge, you are my least favorite."

"I'm so hurt, Ron― that really stung." For a few seconds, Bill pretended to pout. Then, more somberly, his informed his kinsman, "Although my heart has been irreparably damaged by your callous words, it is intact enough yet for me to remind you that once I'm married, and Fleur and I are living in our cottage together, our door is always open to you and your friends if you have need of us― for any reason whatsoever."

"Harry will do a fine job leading us," Ron stated with total confidence in the Boy Who Lived, and his older sibling fervently prayed that this would be the case, and that his little brother and his companions would be able to ride the dolphins, for once, instead of swimming with the sharks.

"I don't doubt Harry." Bill grasped Ron's shoulder, and the younger Weasley boy glanced up at him, blue eyes meeting brown. "Harry is a good kid, and he's going to become a good man― better than me, probably― and he's a natural leader, but you must understand that you three are up against one of the most powerful, clever, and evil wizards this earth had ever been inhabited by. Therefore―"

"I don't care what you say! I'm going with Harry, because he's my best friend, and I refuse to abandon him in his hour of need," maintained Ron staunchly, blue eyes cackling, and his chin stuck out stubbornly.

"Hush, Ron." Sighing, Bill shook his head. "Really, you'd be so much smarter and wiser if you mastered the art of letting the beings you converse finish their thoughts before you lobbed off their heads. Anyhow, in this case, your hostility was unwarranted. I was not advising you to abandon Harry, as real, honorable men do not betray their friends. All I wanted you to realize is that when it seems like the tide is rising way over the heads of you and yours friends, you should not hesitate to look to me for assistance." Here, he swallowed a lump that had emerged in his throat, and then resumed, "I can't guarantee that I can save you lot, but I do vow that I will do the best I possibly can to protect you and those you hold dear."

"Thanks," Ron muttered awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with deep feelings.

"Don't thank me for doing my duty as a big brother, stupid." He took advantage of the opportunity to exercise one of the benefits of his position as the oldest Weasley child, and rumpled up his little brother's hair, ignoring the protests this elicited. "I happen to like you better alive than dead."

"You only like having me alive, so you can mess up my hair," complained Ron, as Bill released him.

"Yep, but I still like you better alive than dead, which means that we'd better hurry up and finish tidying up the shed before Mum stamps out here, and murders us both savagely for dawdling."

"You're right," Ron agreed soberly, returning to work at lightning speed.

Three days later, on a late July evening when all the windows in the Burrow were thrown open in the faint, vain hope of catching a trace of some nonexistent breeze two days before Harry's birthday, Fleur reminded Bill as they reclined together on her bed, "Tomorrow Maman and Papa arrive for ze wedding, remember."

"How could I possibly have forgotten?" Bill arched his eyebrows at her. "Mum has been driving everyone into St. Mungo's mental health ward with her forcing them to clean every inch of the house, because, apparently, your parents will be inspecting under our kitchen sink and the lounge chairs while our backs are all turned, and we want to cultivate an excellent first impression on your family."

"You sound concerned," she observed, running her fingers smoothly through his locks, and he felt some of the tension coiled inside him unravel slightly.

"I am worried," he admitted, chewing on his lower lip, "but not about the cleanliness of our home when your parents enter it."

"Zen what are you fretting about?"

"I'm afraid they won't believe I'm worthy of you," he confessed, flushing, "as I'm not exactly a prize in the Look Kingdom anymore, if you take my meaning."

"My maman and papa comprehend zat a solid marriage 'as far more zan good looks as a foundation," she reassured him.

"These are beyond unattractive, Fleur." Offering her a twisted smile, Bill gestured at the scars that destroyed his once handsome face. "They are hideous and revolting. I can't even endure looking at them in the mirror, and I'm me."

"Your scars show zat you are a courageous person who will fight for 'is beliefs and for ze lives of others instead of fleeing like a coward," Fleur educated him haughtily. "If my family does not understand zat all your scars tell anyone is zat you are brave, zen it says more about zem zan it ever could about you, and zat is ze end of the ze matter."

"Did I ever tell you that I love you?" he asked her, kissing her cheek.

"Only every day," she laughed, "but it never 'urts to remind me zat you do."

"All right, then." This time he brought his lips against hers, relishing the warm reception he found there. "I love you." He kissed her a second time on the lips. "Very much."

"I love you, too." Fleur permitted him to bring his lips to hers one more time before disengaging herself from him. "So, what are we going to buy 'Arry for his birthday?"

"We can wrap him up that camping equipment we received for our wedding," Bill suggested innocently. "I'll wager that it would be useful to him and the other two on their quest."

"I 'ave already explained to you zat we will never recycle gifts," argued Fleur, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Your environment does not appreciate your very non-conservational attitude," he remarked with a snicker. "Well, we'll purchase him a gift card or something."

"Zat's not going to be simple for 'im to employ on 'is quest, you goose."

"Buy him a razor, then. I think he could use one, as I saw traces of a mustache developing on him."

"Why do I 'ave to pick it out?" she demanded.

"Because you did an awesome job getting me a new one last time," he explained. When she bobbed her head in concession, he went on more languidly, "That'll be a great present to offset Mum and Dad's watch. Us Weasleys are without a doubt the lamest gift givers this world has ever seen, although Harry, fortunately, will not feel that way, as, from what Ron tells us, his aunt and uncle used to give him hangars and the like when they remembered his birthday at all. I'll bet when compared to a hangar even a razor or a watch will appear wonderful."

"You are an 'orrible person sometimes."

"Thank you ever so much for the praise."

The next morning, Bill was in his parents' bedroom, assisting his father in making certain that his dress robes were in order. "Do I look fine?" Mr. Weasley asked anxiously, reflexively attempting to smooth a perfectly straight sleeve. "Molly insists that she ironed this, but―"

"I'm sure she did," Bill soothed, though he felt anything but calm and assured himself at the moment. Honestly, his dad should be reassuring him now, not the other way around. "You look great, Dad. Chill out."

"I just want to make a good first impression on your fiancée's family," commented Mr. Weasley, tugging at his robe in his nerves.

"You'll make an awesome first impression, Dad. Never fear."

"That's right." His dad nodded, appearing more confident now. "While we walk back to the Burrow, I'll tell them all about you as a child."

"Oh, no, you don't have need to trouble yourself with that," Bill informed him quickly, recollecting his parents' knack for showing family friends embarrassing photos of him and his siblings, because they harbored under the delusion that such pictures were "adorable." "I'm positive that the Delacours would much rather put together their own impression of me when they meet me in person."

"I'll tell them about the time you wrote the ABC's all over the counter in mashed spinach," his father continued, paying him no mind.

"That wasn't even me, Dad." 

"It wasn't?"

"Nah, it was actually Charlie that did that."

"Oops." Mr. Weasley shrugged amiably. "In that case, I'll just relate the tale of how when you were two, you climbed up on the counter to grab a box of crackers, and how, even though you couldn't reach them, you persisted in stretching toward them, despite the fact that I ordered you to get off before you injured yourself."

"That was a Charlie escapade, as well," Bill lied, smiling inwardly at the memory.

"Sorry." A sheepish expression overcame Mr. Weasley's features. "I guess you and Charlie have more in common personality-wise than I remembered."

"It's okay," answered his son too swiftly.

Maybe something in his tone alerted Mr. Weasley to the fib, for he announced abruptly, "Bill, you lied to me. It was you with the crackers, for I recollect you complaining about your mum being preoccupied with Charlie, so she couldn't get you a snack."

"Well, you can't blame a bloke for trying, can you?" It was Bill's chance to be sheepish.

"I won't tell any funny stories about you, then, if it worries you so," his dad promised, hugging him for a minute. "I love you, and, believe it or not, I'm really striving to make this as easy as possible for you."

"I know," returned Bill, as his father released him.

"You grew up way too fast for me." Mr. Weasley patted his child's shoulder, as he headed toward his bedroom door.

"Basically, that means that I disappointed both my parents, as Mum is utterly convinced that I took way too long to mature."

"Either way you grew up well, in the end."

"If I did, it was because I had a good example to emulate." Bill crossed over to his father, and kissed him quickly on the cheek, something he had not done since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, but seemed appropriate now. "You'd better get going, Dad, as the Delacours will be arriving soon."

"Wish me luck." Mr. Weasley nodded, and, without waiting for any such benediction, hastened out of the room, downstairs to the kitchen, and out of the house to meet the Delacours at Stoutshead Hill, and guide them back to the Burrow, where they would stay until the conclusion of the wedding ceremony.

At Mrs. Weasley's orders, everyone currently residing in the Burrow lined up in the kitchen for inspection. Only when she was satisfied that everybody appeared the best he or she could, did she permit them to exit the house, and wait in the garden to offer the Delacours an official state welcome. As he surveyed the yard, Bill had to confess that he did feel immensely grateful that the lawn was not littered with its typical rusty cauldrons and old Wellington boots, the grass was mowed and cleared, and the chickens and gnomes were gone. It probably was not a bright idea to shamelessly display just how eccentric the Weasley clan was to the Delacours when they were introduced.

Five minutes later, a high-pitched, maniacal laugh crashed against their ears, and, thinking that You-Know-Who must have come calling, Bill's hand flew toward his wand. However, before he could draw it, he noted that his father, who was laden with baggage and was leading a stunning woman decked out in leaf-green robes who was undeniably Fleur's mother, was striding toward the Burrow. It seemed that in his haste to appear good-natured, his dad had began to force laughter, with the net result that he sounded like a lunatic.

Luckily, everybody's attention was caught by his fiancée, instead, when she darted forward to embrace her mother, shouting delightedly as her silver hair streamed behind her, "Maman!"

When she had finished hugging her mother, Fleur wrapped her arms about her father tightly. At this point, Bill's eyes focused on his father-in-law-to-be, the man who most likely wanted him castrated at the moment, and was somewhat relieved to discover that Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his gorgeous spouse, as he was a rotund man, which implied that love more than looks had been the determining factor in their match. Also, to Bill's considerable relief, the man had apples for cheeks, and was beaming as he bounced like a massive ball of energy toward Mrs. Weasley.

"You 'ave been to much trouble," he announced in a deep voice, kissing a blushing Mrs. Weasley on each cheek. "Fleur tells us you 'ave been working very 'ard."

"Oh, it's been nothing― nothing!" Mrs. Wealey waved a dismissive hand, though Bill could detect her pleasure at his sincerity. On the other hand, Ron had to displace his ire at the gross underestimate of the sweat he had put into preparing for the wedding and the arrival of the bride's family by aiming a vicious kick at a stray gnome who was imprudently peering out from behind the branches of a newly planted Flutterby shrubbery.

"Dear lady," Monsieur Delacour went on exuberantly, more color flowing into his cheeks as he clasped Bill's mum's palms warmly in his own plump ones. "We are most honored at the approaching union of our two families! Let me present my wife, Apolline."

Listening to Monsieur Delacour's effusive words, Bill was rather startled as the man had never met any of his future family members, yet he was delighted at the prospect of the nuptials. Not that it really mattered that Fleur's dad was enthusiastic about the marriage, because it would make things run much smoother, and thus far, everything was going much better than he had dared to hope in his wildest dreams. He was dragged from his musings as Madame Delacour, recalling Fleur's graceful movements, glided forward, and bent to offer Mrs. Weasley a kiss, as well.

"Enchantee," she declared, sounding very much like her daughter. "Your 'usband 'as been telling us such amusing stories!"

A foreboding feeling snaked through Bill at this, because he feared that his dad might have forgotten his promise and detailed a fair amount of Bill's most humbling moments to his future in-laws. His unease was not alleviated when Mr. Weasley emitted another one of those chilling laughs that he had never issued before in his life until today, and, which, for the benefit of everyone's ear drums, should never be repeated. Fortunately, an ominous glower from Mrs. Weasley silenced Mr. Weasley at once, and caused him to adopt an expression that befitted a funeral more aptly.

"And, of course, you 'ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!" concluded Monsieur Delacour, pretending not to notice Mr. Weasley's peculiar laugh. At this, a miniature Fleur, who according to Bill's fiancée, would have been about elven, flounced up to them. She demonstrated all of her dazzling pearly teeth to the assembly with a broad smile, and then hugged Mrs. Weasley.

Once she had detached herself from Bill's mum, Gabrielle's eyes centered on Harry, and she batted her eyelashes. As Ginny cleared her throat loudly, suggesting that she did not tolerate anyone flirting with Harry, Bill stifled a grin, thinking that little Gabrielle must have developed a crush on Harry when he had rescued her three years ago. Well, it wouldn't be too awful if Harry ended up with Gabrielle, because then Ginny would be free to live in a nunnery.

"Come in, do!" Mrs. Weasley ushered their visitors into the Burrow with a remarkable number of "No, please!"s, and "After you!"s, and "Not at all!"s.

"Maman and Papa, zis is 'im," Fleur educated her parents excitedly when the four of them sat down together in the living room. "Zis is Bill, ze man I'm going to marry."

"I am 'appy to meet you." Madame Delacour leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

"Fleur 'as written to us about you so much zat we feel like we know you already," contributed her husband, who was still all smiles. "You work at Gringotts, non?"

"Yes, Monsieur, I'm a Curse-Breaker," he answered, anticipating that the next question would be something along the lines of what his salary was exactly, or how he expected to support Fleur.

"Don't call me 'Monsieur.' Call me 'Papa'! If we're going to be family, zen we ought to act like family. So, Fleur, writes zat you used to work in Egypt as a Curse-Breaker."

"Yes, and I did, and I loved it there, because the pyramids were challenging and exciting, but I'm glad that I left in the end, or else I never would have met Fleur," Bill responded frankly, forgoing any form of address, as "Papa" would take some adapting to.

"I'm 'appy zat you left, too, or otherwise, I would not have met you," giggled Fleur. A second later, she practically leapt off the sofa. "I 'ave to show you two ze seating arrangements and ze bridesmaids' shoes."

"I'll come and 'elp you bring zem down to show your papa." Instantly, Madame Delacour got to her feeet, and mother and daughter bustled out of the room together, chatting in rapid French that Bill had not a prayer of comprehending.

Now that he was alone with his soon-to-be-father-in-law, Bill felt rather how he envisioned Daniel must have after he was thrust into the lion's den, because he was pretty sure that Monsieur Delacour's beam would disappear at roughly the speed of light, and the interrogation would commence now. Luckily, he was to be proven wrong in this hypothesis, because Fleur's father said only, "I am looking forward to 'aving a son in you, and in ze man zat Gabrielle will eventually choose to marry, since I 'ave no sons of my own, and, while a man loves and protects 'is daughters, it is to 'is sons zat 'e relates to."

"It's funny that you should say that," Bill remarked, grinning, "as with my family, it is the exact opposite. My parents produced six sons, and one daughter, the youngest, and my mother always has craved another female presence at the Burrow, especially since Ginny is not willing to wear dresses often."

"Perhaps Fleur could become a sort of daughter to your lovely mother ze way you could become a son to me," Monsieur Delacour suggested.

"That would be nice." Bill's smile widened. "Then everyone would be happy, Papa." Wow, he could believe that he had said that, but he realized that it was right, when Monsieur Delacour's beam stretched further across his face so that it literally extended from ear to ear.

At this juncture, Fleur returned with her mother, both of them bearing the parchment containing seating arrangements, and the bridesmaids' shoes. "Your 'ausband-to-be is charmant!" exclaimed Monsieur Delacour to his older child as she and his spouse placed the seating arrangements on the coffee table before him, and the shoes on the floor near his feet.

This glowing praise was put into perspective somewhat when Monsieur Delacour also pronounced the seating arrangements and the shoes "charmant" as well, but Bill was still pleased that his first meeting with Fleur's family had been as non-confrontational as it was.


	63. Chapter 63

Disclaimer: If I were J

Disclaimer: If I were J.K. Rowling, I would occupy my time with the writing of bestsellers, rather than fanfiction.

Reviews: Are always welcome.

Author's Note: Sorry, next chapter will be the wedding. This just has the rehearsal, but this got to be long enough that I figured I could separate it.

Thanks so much to Lady Clark-Weasley for pointing out that Tonks and Remus do, in fact, depart before the Minister's arrival. (They don't even get to enjoy the cake, which is the reason people go to parties.) My only defense is that I didn't have the seventh book in front of me when I was writing that scene, and my brain was suffering from mid-May drain. (You know that's happening when your Latin teacher asks you to conjugate a verb, and you do it perfectly...in Spanish.) So, anyway, I editted that part to fix the inconsistency. Once again, thanks to Lady Clark-Weasley for reminding me of this politely.

Mysterious Gifts

On Harry's birthday, Fleur rose early, and went to Diagon Alley with her little sister, Gabrielle, in tow, to buy Harry's enchanted razor, and then she returned and wrapped it in her bedroom, while Bill looked on. When she had finished arranging green ribbons on it with far more care and patience than he could ever have displayed in such a thankless endeavor, she shoved the parcel into his hands, and ordered, "Put it on ze breakfast table, and leave it zere when you 'ave finished eating. Zen Harry be able to find it, if 'e wakes up late, and we are all at ze wedding rehearsal already. Ze poor boy must not think zat we 'ave forgotten 'im."

"You won't be coming down to breakfast now?"

"I 'ave to make certain zat my dress fits perfectly, and zen I 'ave to do ze same for Gabrielle and Ginny, if your sister will let me zat is—she doesn't like dresses to much," Fleur answered, and then provided a final instruction. "Don't forget to meet ze Magical Marquee director at noon on Stoutshead 'ill."

"I won't," he promised her, stroking her silver strands of hair. "Relax."

"I can't relax." She sounded exasperated with his thick-headedness. "I'm getting married tomorrow, in case it 'as slipped your mind, Meester!"

"It did, actually, now that you mention it," he teased her, as he turned, and directed his steps toward the staircase that lead down to the kitchen. Craning his neck to glance back at her, he added over his shoulder, "You see, my part in the whole ceremony, as the groom, is so simple that I'm prone to doing so, please forgive me."

Seeing her scowl, he hastened downstairs before she could relieve some of her anxiety by throwing the scissors she had used to cut the wrapping paper for Harry's gift at him. When he arrived in the kitchen, he saw that his mum was flushing in pleasure at work over her stove as Monsieur Delacour expounded on the merits of her pancakes and bacon. His appearance did not go unnoticed, for as he placed his and Fleur's present on top of the mound of Potter tribute at the far end of the table, Monsieur Delacour advised him, "'Ave some of zese magnificent pancakes zat your mozzer made. Zey are simply superb."

"I will, thank you." Bill dumped three pancakes and two slices of bacon from the platters in the center of the table onto his own saucer, and poured himself a mug of coffee, which he took black. After swallowing a bite of pancake, he agreed, "Yes, it is very good. Thanks, Mum."

"Oh, it's nothing, dear, nothing," Mrs. Weasley informed him briskly. "It is really a very basic recipe. I've established it in the past, and I'll do so again: _100 Great Recipes for People Who Don't Have Time to Cook _is a miracle cookbook, I swear, although _Ten Minute Meals: It's Magic _is a close contender for the title of best cookbook, though some of its recipes do call for rather too much sugar, I think."

"You can never have too much sugar, Mum," Bill replied with absolute seriousness.

Preoccupied with flipping over another batch of hotcakes, his mother ignored this, and Monsieur Delacour commented, "Fleur showed me ze engagement ring zat you purchased 'er. It was charmant, absolutely charmant."

"I'm glad you like it. It has a firestone on it, I don't know if Fleur told you." Bill smiled at the fact that yet another item pertaining to the wedding was "charmant" as his future father-in-law termed it.

However, Monsieur Delacour was denied the chance to respond, because Harry had just clattered into the kitchen, his unruly jet-black hair tousled with sleep, with Ron clambering along in his wake, yammering on about the gift he had just given his best mate upstairs in the bedroom they shared.

"Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry," Mrs. Weasley educated the addressed as he plopped into a chair beside Ron at the table. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our present on top."

Nodding his understanding, Harry reached out, and opened the square package she indicated. For a moment, he just stared at the newly unwrapped watch once he had removed the paper to reveal it, as though he had never glimpsed any time-keeping device before in his life. His silence must have made Mrs. Weasley anxious for she remarked hurriedly, "It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age. I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's. It was actually my brother Fabian's, and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, so it's a bit dented on the back, but—"

She need not have been concerned on this count, though, for Harry must have always adopted a stupefied expression whenever anyone furnished him with a gift, as he broke into a gigantic glowing beam, dashed over to her, and bestowed on her a tight squeeze. Looking somewhat wrong-footed, Bill's mother clumsily patted Harry's cheek.

Then, the scene was again interrupted by the arrival of Hermione Granger, who raced into the room, shouting, "Happy birthday, Harry! It's not much but I hope you'll like it!"

Obediently, Harry accepted the present she proffered him, and opened it to uncover a Sneakoscope. The practicality of this gift combined with the fact that Harry would appreciate how it related to defensive magic implied that as a non-Weasley, Hermione had managed to escape the lame-present-giving gene.

"Oh," gasped Harry. "I love it—it'll be useful, um in the future, you know." At his words, Bill rolled his eyes, thinking that it was obvious to everyone that the boy was referencing his mysterious quest, which seemed to have been handed to him on a stone tablet from on high.

Perhaps, Harry realized that everyone surmised what he was referring, and wanting to discourage awkward inquiries, for he grabbed a gift from the pile at random, and, unfortunately, he selected the one from Bill and Fleur, which meant that Bill would be perishing of humiliation sooner rather than later. As he had predicted, the instant Harry had tugged off the wrappings, and spotted the enchanted razor, his brows had knit together in consternation, and then he tentatively stroked the skin above his upper lip, and seemed startled to discover the stubble there. Once he had recovered from his surprise, Harry stated politely, "Thanks, Bill. Tell Fleur I said thanks when she comes down, will you?"

Before Bill could assent to this request, Monsieur Delacour had stepped in with his characteristic enthusiasm, "Zat is ze kind of razor zat I use! Yes, 'Arry, zis will give you ze smoothest shave you will ever 'ave, but be careful to read ze instruction manual before you use it, because you must tell it clearly what you want. Ozzerwise, you might find zat you 'ave a leetle less 'air zan you would like."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, thank you." Harry nodded, a dazed expression on his features, as Bill had the discomfiting revelation that Fleur must have learned as a girl what type of razor her father had utilized, and purchased it for him when he required a new one, and then he had liked it, and suggested that they give one like it to Harry...well, it certainly supported the theory that women married men similar to their dads...Fortunately, his musings were shattered at this point due to the fact that Harry was passing about a box of chocolates from Paris that he had received from the Delacours, and he had to focus his attention on choosing a candy with caramel, not raspberry filling.

After Harry had opened a massive box approximately the size of Canada containing the latest merchandise of Weasley Wizard Wheezes from the proprietors themselves, something that prompted Bill to ponder if the lame-gift gene was recessive, Bill glanced at his watch, which he had received from his parents on his own seventeenth birthday, and observed, as Fleur, Gabrielle, and Madame Delacour descended the stairs and joined the congregation clustered in the kitchen, "It's ten minutes to twelve. I'd better go meet that guy from Magical Marquee. Now, he informed that it takes him about ten minutes to construct the marquee, so, everyone involved in the wedding rehearsal, please arrive there for the rehearsal at twelve-fifteen. Tell Ginny that, too, somebody, if you'd be so kind."

On his way to the exit, he rumpled Harry's hair affectionately, as if he were a blood brother. "See you later, Cousin Barney."

"What did you call me?" asked a frowning Harry.

"Did you forget your name, Barney?" Bill chortled. "Or do you go by Barnabus now? I apologize if you do, since we put 'Barney' on all the invitations and everything..." he chuckled again at the blank look on Harry's face, and departed.

At twelve-fifteen that afternoon, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Gabrielle, and Monsieur Delacour were assembled under the recently erected marquee with their Magical Marquee wedding director, Mr. Curtis, who, it transpired, was a brusque man who deemed most common courtesies unneeded time wasters.

"Where is the flower girl?" he demanded once he had been told that everybody had arrived for the rehearsal.

"We don't 'ave one," Fleur educated him placidly from between her father and Bill.

"How can that be?" snarled Mr. Curtis incredulously. "You must have a flower girl! In all of civilization, I doubt there was a single decent wedding that did not have a flower girl, for God's sake!"

"If zat is indeed ze case, zen we shall be ze first to do so, and go down in history," Fleur countered with a sharp dignity.

"Or I could be the flower girl," suggested Ginny eagerly, "as long as I don't have to wear a dress."

"Flower girls have to wear dresses, lioness," her older sibling reminded her. "Besides, we have already tailored a bridesmaid's dress for you, and got the matching shoes—"

"Which basically are devised so that, if a man chases after me, I can't escape, as all high-heels are," grumbled Ginny mutinously.

"If anyone bothers you, I'll murder them," he reassured her.

Before Ginny could reply, Mr. Curtis inserted himself irascibly, "Well, if this were a _normal_ wedding, the flower girl would emerge from the back of the marquee first, and she would slowly make her way up to the groom and the best man standing at the front of the guests, dropping a handful of flowers in each direction after every third step, but since you don't have one, where's the ring bearer?"

"We don't have one of them, either," admitted Bill.

"You don't have a ring bearer, either?" a disbelieving Mr. Curtis echoed. "What sort of marriage ceremony is this supposed to be exactly?"

"Maybe you didn't notice, but there is a war raging, so it is not exactly prudent to bring too many people together in these perilous times," Bill responded in a terse voice, miffed at the other man's manner.

"Blast it." Mr. Curtis swore. "How in the world will the best man and the maid of honor get the rings to hand to the groom and the bride, so that they can exchange them?"

"I suppose that Charlie and Gabrielle will have to think outside the box, and take the rings from us prior to the ceremony, and hand them to us when we need them," he answered.

"I guess that's what we'll have to do," conceded Mr. Curtis, none too graciously. "Anyway, to resume, after the flower girl and the ring bearer have not gone down the aisle, the bride—" he jabbed a finger at Fleur, as though it might have slipped her mind that she was that individual—

"will walk slowly down the aisle with her father escorting her." This time, his finger pointed at Monsieur Delacour. "The bridesmaids will follow three steps behind them, taking care not to step on the bride's train. Does everybody comprehend that?"

There was dull murmur of assent that seemed to satisfy Mr. Curtis on this count for he pointed toward the platform at the front of the marquee, and commanded, "The groom and the best man walk in from the sides, and stand there about five minutes prior to the entry of the bride and her father, and the bridesmaids. Let's run through that bit, okay?"

Obediently, Bill disengaged himself from the others, and strode toward the side exit, but was halted by Mr. Curtis' barck, "I asked the best man to leave now with the groom. Where is the best man?"

"In Romania," Bill answered casually.

"A hysterical joke," glowered Mr. Curtis.

"I wasn't jesting. Seriously, the best man should be arriving this evening from his work in Romania."

"Plague on it!" Mr. Curtis growled. "Well, then, I suppose we'll have to get on without him here, as well. So, anyway, you can leave, and come back in, and stand on the platform. While he does that, everyone else arrange yourselves in order of entrance in the back outside the marquee…"

After three hours of being snapped at, and rearranged by Mr. Curtis, the participants in the rehearsal were finally dismissed, and they all traipsed, abusing the crabby man extensively, back up to the Burrow, where they all threw themselves together sandwiches, trying to avoid bothering Mrs. Weasley while she applied the crowning glories to the icing Snitch on the top of Harry's birthday cake. They had barely eaten their sandwiches, when Charlie walked through the kitchen door, as muscular and tan as always.

"Charlie!" To his own surprise, Bill managed to hug his closest brother before their mum could so. "Good to see you, man."

"It's been too long." Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations!" His hazelnut eyes flashed about the room until they lit upon Fleur, whom he grinned at, and held out his hand to shake hands with. As they shook hands, Charlie remarked, "So, you're the beautiful bride, huh?"

"And you're ze best man," observed Fleur in kind, shaking hands with him.

"It's nice to meet the woman who finally stole my older brother's heart of stone," Charlie laughed, "and now that I see you, I understand why that is."

"I am 'appy to meet you, as well," responded Fleur. "Bill 'as told me so much about you zat I feel as if I practically know you already."

"If I'm fortunate, _some _of what you've heard about me will have been positive," grumbled Charlie. "Well, I'd better go up and unpack, because I don't want to be late for Harry's birthday blow-out, as then I won't get a decent-sized piece of cake." With that, he pivoted, and made to dash up the stairs, waving his wand to conduct his trunk up the steps before him, and Bill shook his head, doubting his sibling's ability to escape this scene without some intervention from their mum.

Indeed, he was proven correct in this hypothesis when Mrs. Weasley grabbed her second eldest child's burly upper arm, and whipped him about to face her, before yanking him into what, Bill knew from experience, would be a rib-crushing and ling-emptying embrace. "Not so fast, young man―you're not retreating until you have greeted me properly."

"All right," allowed a panting Charlie, patting his mother somewhat weakly on the back. "Hey, Mum. Great seeing you again. Love you. Am I permitted to breathe now?"

The last inquiry, it seemed, alerted Mrs. Weasley to the fact that she was strangling her son, for she released him abruptly, as though he were a hot potato that had scalded her. Once she had let Charlie free, she scrutinized him critically, and frowned as her eyes lit on his typically untended, and unstyled hair, which was doubtlessly too lengthy for her tastes.

"Merlin, Charlie!" she scolded, clasping a handful of the addressed's mop of hair, and tugging on it in frustration. "How can you let your hair go uncared for like this―"

"Lay off." Charlie twisted free of his mother's clutches, still every inch the agile Seeker, even if he wasn't in the air. "Anyway, it's nowhere near as long as Bill's."

At his words, Bill glared at him, figuring that he should not have dragged him into this, especially as Mrs. Weasley had not pestered Bill about his hair since Grayback's attack, and he was rather enjoying the absence of that particular clash in their relationship.

"Well, at least your brother styles his hair," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "Really, if you're going to be in a wedding, you could go to the trouble of styling your hair, or getting it trimmed, or something."

"Please," Charlie scoffed. "I've never stressed myself with my appearance, and I am not about to start now. Bill recognized that when he asked me to be his best man, and he still decided to have me be it anyway, which is all very flattering, and blah, blah, blah."

"You can't be serious." Mrs. Weasley's arms crossed.

"I'm absolutely serious." Charlie's somber expression did not belie his words. "It's all a massive balancing act, you see. I don't give a hoot about how I look, and Bill cares far too much about his appearance. When the tow of us came together, we average each other out, and become normal."

"You're just making excuses, but you needn't bother, as I'll just give you a trim now." Here Mrs. Weasley rubbed her wand affectionately, a gesture which was all too familiar to Bill.

"No way!" As he established as much, Charlie's arms folded across his chest. "I don't want to be bald."

"Sit down." Mrs. Weasley shoved him into a chair.

"Mum, you can't―" Charlie stuttered in protest.

"I can, and I will," snarled Mrs. Weasley, pointing her wand menacingly at Charlie's head. "Now, be quiet, so I can focus on trimming your hair for you."

In the end, she sheared off most of his locks, leaving him only a sparse coating of fuzzy red hair on his head. When she finished chopping off his hair, and Charlie had fled over to the drawer underneath the stove to examine his reflection in a frying pan, she reassured him, as mounting horror rose on his face at his new hairstyle, "Don't fret, your hair looks very nice now, and is loads more attractive than it was before, dear. Now, be a good lad, and say 'thank you.'"

"Yeah, thanks for ruining my hair the day before I have to be a best man in my brother's wedding," Charlie responded sarcastically, running a hand through his decimated hair.

"So you lied earlier when you said that you don't care about your appearance!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed triumphantly. "It does matter to you how you look when you show up at your brother's funeral."

"Wake up and smell the coffee, or butterbeer, or whatever highly caffeinated beverage you employ to get your mind functioning in the morning." Rolling his eyes, Charlie snapped his fingers in front of his mother's nose. "The only reason I give a damn about how I look at Bill's wedding is because it matters to him, and so, sure, I guess in this instance, my appearance means something to me indirectly. Since you've proven to everyone present that I'm a compulsive liar, are you satisfied, Mum?"

"Don't take that tone with me! I just did you a major favor by cutting your hair for you, so you don't look like an idiot!" His mum flared up at him, and Bill rolled his eyes at his sibling, as if to say "with some people you just can't win."

"Whatever," mumbled Charlie, retreating toward the stairwell before she could assault him again. "I'll just make my hair grow back, and everything will be fine, I reckon."

"You won't be able to do so, because this time I put an Anti-Growing Spell on your hair," his mother informed him haughtily.

"I'll find a way to get it off." With that last obstinate sentiment, Charlie stomped upstairs to the bedroom he would share with Bill that night.

That evening, at seven o'clock, all the Weasleys, except Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the Delacours, Harry, and Hermione assembled in the garden, and soon Remus, Tonks, and Hagrid arrived, and handed their gifts to Harry. Not long after the three guests joined them in the yard, Mrs. Weasley came darting out of the house, bearing a cake, and shouting at everyone to move out of her path. However, none of them could begin devouring it, because Mr. Weasley had yet to arrive, and his wife did not wish to start the party without him. This meant that their was little to distract her while she waited for his return, and resulted in her shooting frequent glances at the garden gate, hoping to see her spouse wending his way home.

"I hope Dad comes home soon," Charlie stated as he eyed the dessert wistfully, his stomach rumbling, to Bill and Fleur. "I'm starving, and I want a slice of that cake more than anything."

"You're so noble," teased Bill, nudging him.

"I'm not entirely evil, no matter what you claim on the contrary, I'll have you know." Charlie shrugged, and Fleur chuckled. "You see, I also want Dad to return home quickly, because I want Mum to stop worrying so. Oh, I'd better go― I think Hagrid is beckoning me over. He probably wants to ask me some questions on dragons."

Five minutes after Charlie left to chat with Hagrid, silence descended upon them, as Mr. Weasley's weasel Patronus materialized, and announced that the Minister of Magic would be dropping by in about a minute's time. At this, Tonks and Remus decided it was prudent to leave before the Minister saw them, and they departed at top speed, after saying a brisk farewell.

Before any of the others could absorb or recover from this astonishing update, Rufus Smrimgeour arrived on Mr. Weasley's heels, and requested a word alone with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the living room. As Harry and his two best friends disappeared into the Burrow with the Minister of Magic, who was looking more drawn than usual, Bill frowned, and hissed to Fleur, "I have a foreboding feeling about this."

"Of course you do," she whispered back, shaking her head, and sending her silver hair flying in every conceivable direction. "Politicians are always bad news. You should know zat by now."

"I do," he replied, somewhat defensively, "but this could be worse than I thought. I mean, I understand how he might want to seduce Harry into being his poster boy or something in a last ditch attempt to stay in power, but why in the world would he wish to speak with Ron and Hermione? Sure, Hermione is clever, but the Ministry isn't exactly into rational behavior, and as for Ron, well, he's just not all that exceptional."

"Maybe ze Minister believes zat zey are worth tempting, because zey are close to Harry," she suggested tentatively.

"Perhaps." He nodded thoughtfully. "Or maybe he suspects that they are up to something― like their quest― because they were so close to Dumbledore, and, according to the Ministry, being involved with Dumbledore is synonymous with being seditious."

Unfortunately, Fleur was unable to respond to this remark, because shouts that sounded very similar to threats were issuing from the living room, drowning out her next words, and Bill instinctively moved toward the house, thinking that he ought to go in and intervene on behalf of the three teenagers inside. However, he ceased his movements suddenly when he spotted his parents racing into the Burrow, because he knew that even a hardened former Auror such as Scrimgeour would not emerge the victor from a confrontation with his parents, and the three adolescents inside. It was possible that Scrimgeour comprehended as much, implying that he was indeed sharper than Fudge, which was not saying much, because he stalked out of the house a few seconds later, his cloak billowing behind him in a decidedly irate fashion.

Less than a minute after Scrimgeour's departure, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione exited the Weasley residence, as well. Representing everybody except the three teenagers who had spoken with Scrimgeour, Hagrid demanded, "What happened in there?"

"Nothing much," Harry answered rapidly. "Dumbledore wrote a will, and he bequeathed some items to Hermione, Ron, and I, and the Ministry has finally completed searching every inch of them, and has chosen to actually give them to us now."

"You were going to duel over that?" Mrs. Weasley's tone was dubious.

"Well, he saw fit to question each of us on our relationships with our headmaster," explained Harry, "and we got a little angry, because he should be fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters, not interrogating us, for God's sake."

"What did Dumbledore leave you?" Charlie leaned forward, an expression of immense interest lighting his face face.

"He gave me the first Snitch I ever caught, for some bizarre reason," Harry informed her, "and he gave Hermione a book of fairy tales, and Ron a lighter thing. I still haven't figured out what we're going to do with any of it."

"Those are random gifts," Charlie mused, his forehead furrowing. "May we see them? Maybe that will reveal something."

The trio complied with his request by dumping their inheritances onto the table next to the birthday cake. Edging over to the table in order to behold Dumbledore's gifts to his three pupils with the rest of the humans on the lawn, Bill spotted a Golden Snitch, a book of Beedle Bard's fables, and―

"That's Dumbledore's Deilluminator," murmured Mr. Weasley, indicating Ron's inheritance from the former head of Hogwarts. "It will turn on and off lights for you― meaning that Dumbledore obviously desired you to be able to work covertly in the dark."

"That makes some sense, but it doesn't add up completely," observed his spouse, tapping her upper lip in her deep thought, "because, after all, a wand can achieve much the same effect through basic charms that Harry, Hermione, and Ron already have memorized, so why bother leaving them the Deilluminator, unless it serves some other function?"

"Ze other use must be ze real mystery," Fleur confirmed.

"It is certainly a mystery, but it is not the only one," Hermione countered, "as I would like to learn why exactly Dumbledore would deem it beneficial for me to own a collection of fairy tales. I mean, they don't tend to be very helpful, or factual, at all."

This comment reminded Bill forcibly of Percy, something that spurred him to contradict her. "Actually, Hermione, that's not necessarily true. From what I've learned in my study of Ancient Egyptian mythology, I've discovered that all myths have some foundation in fact and truth, even if one must delve deeply to uncover the aforementioned base."

Possibly, Hermione would have objected to this contention, but she was interrupted before she could begin to do so, by Harry, who wanted to know, "And what is with the Snitch― what benefit will it provide me?"

"Snitches have flesh memories," Charlie announced abruptly, as the resident expert on all things pertaining however obscurely to Quidditch. "Perhaps something else is hidden inside it."

"Yes, that's what I thought to, but when Harry touched it, it didn't open," sighed Hermione.

"Then, sorry, I can't be of any further service to you." Here Charlie offered a rueful smile. "May brain is already in sensory overload. This is exactly why I don't do complex thought."

Quiet engulfed the gathering once more, before Mrs. Weasley broke it by proposing that they start to consume the cake, as it was getting late, and tomorrow would be a tiring day for everyone.


	64. Chapter 64

Disclaimer: It isn't my territory; it is all J

Disclaimer: It isn't my territory; it is all J.K. Rowling's property.

Author's Note: Here's the long-anticipated wedding scene. I hope it was worth the wait. Let me know what you think by reviewing, and Happy Memorial Day. If it stinks, that's because I'm really dumb and only got an 1890 (out of 2400) on my SATs. (My dad is still yelling about my Math scores, but it's not my fault I have no aptitude at Math, and a very high aptitude at English…grr, he should understand, as he skyrocketed in Math, and did awful in English.) By the way, the wedding vows are Catholic ones, but I imagine that most Christians have similar ones.

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Wedding Woes

That night, Bill couldn't go to sleep, and, instead, he stared out of the cracks between the blinds at the distant moon and stars shining above him in the midnight black sky. He couldn't nod off, because his emotions were cresting and ebbing inside him with the ferocity of a tempest-tossed ocean, leaving him incapable of finding the requisite serenity inside himself to descend into dreamland. He was excited about the prospect of wedding the woman he loved, but he was also apprehensive of marrying, since in doing so he would slam the door forever on his childhood, and he wasn't sure he was ready to do so, but he had to be…

Gosh, he wanted nothing more than to roll back and forth in futile attempts at getting comfortable on the mattress that was pricking him, yet, he recognized dimly, wasn't the true reason behind tonight's insomnia. However, he restrained himself from doing so by reminding himself that fitful movements would disturb his brother, and he didn't wish to do that. At least one of them should have his beauty sleep, after all. Wait, Charlie couldn't possibly be asleep, as he snored voluminously and their bedroom was as silent as a grave.

"Charlie?" he whispered tentatively into the darkness, kicking off the oppressive sheets that were stifling him.

"You can't sleep, either, huh?" responded Charlie.

"No, I'm in too much emotional turmoil to do that," Bill admitted, glad that the night concealed his blush. "I can't believe that tomorrow evening I'll be a married man just like that."

"I can't believe it, either." A teasing quality entered Charlie's tone. "As I declared earlier today, it still comes as a shock to me that anyone could rob you of your heart of stone."

"And Fleur insists that I'm unromantic. You'd be off her scale, if that is the case." The older Weasley rolled his eyes, although he realized in the rear of his mind that his younger brother could not discern him behaving thus.

"I'll take some of the burden off both our shoulders by going downstairs, and finding out if I can overcome Mum's charm," Charlie mumbled after a moment's awkward pause, flipping out of his bed.

"I'll go assist you." With that, Bill lurched out of his bed, and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen with his brother, both of them as quiet in this endeavor as stealthy cats.

However, despite their best efforts at removing their mother's Anti-Growing Charm from Charlie's hair, the spell remained firm, defiant of their strongest attempts at doing so, and so, they were unable to bewitch the younger redhead's hair to re-grow itself.

"God damn it!" cursed Charlie, shoving his companion's wand into his pajama pockets. "Never mind, just forget it. Mum must have learned from the last time we re-grew my hair after she lobbed it all off for me."

Before Bill could hiss at his comrade to stuff a sock in his mouth, so that the entire house would not be awakened, the sounds of slippers slapping the floor as they descended the stairwell filled the kitchen. Pivoting instinctively, the two brothers spotted Ginny stepping delicately off the final stair, and smirking at the pair of them. "You two might want to lower your voices a tad, because if you don't, you'll wake up the inhabitants of this house who can sleep."

"Did we awaken you?" Bill inquired somewhat apologetically as she strode purposefully toward the cabinet and withdrew a glass from it.

"Nope." She shook her head briskly, as she swung open the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of milk, and filled her cup with the liquid. "I couldn't sleep, anyhow, since I'm concerned about― about making an idiot of myself at the wedding tomorrow."

"Why stress over that?" drawled Charlie, walking over to the freezer, and taking out a pint of vanilla ice cream, as his sister pulled a box of cookies out of another cabinet. "You always look like an idiot, baby sis. It would be more alarming if you didn't appear the fool tomorrow."

"Shut up, and stop calling me 'baby sis,' or I'll punch you in the nose, and send you sailing back to Romania before you can figure out what hit you," growled Ginny, dropping the cookies on the table beside her milk, and plopping into a chair, turning sideways so that her feet rested on another seat, and the cookie crumbs landed upon the floor when she ate. For a minute, she munched heavily on her cookie, displacing her wrath with her brother on her food, then, she asked more softly, "What will happen if I trip as I go down the aisle, because of my blasted high heels and dress?"

"If you do, it will be awesome," Charlie informed her, settling in another chair, and propping his feet upon the seat across from him, before diving into the ice cream with his spoon, not even troubling to scoop it into a bowl. "It will go well with my fumbling and forgetting to hand Bill the ring at the correct moment."

"And my forgetting my line," added Bill, snatching a handful of cookies from Ginny's box before she could him away from her midnight snack.

"I'm being serious," Ginny glowered, dunking her cookie in her drink.

"So am I." Charlie's eyes expanded in innocence. "I really will mess up like that, but we honestly don't need to fret, because it we laugh it off, it will seem like we planned it that way, and were just striving for the ever-popular comical look."

"If I wanted a farce for a wedding, I would've had the dreadful duo involved in it," Bill educated him shortly. "Just try your best, everyone. If we just remain calm and focused, everything will work out, and everything will be over by this time tomorrow night."

"That's not so." A malicious gleam glistened in Charlie's eyes as he taunted his older sibling. "After all, I hate to remind you, but your work will only be starting tomorrow evening, if you take my meaning."

"I do, but what you're referring to isn't a labor― it's a pleasure," chuckled Bill, forgetting his sister's presence for a sinful second. When he recollected that she was there, he coughed, and suggested, "We'd better return to our beds, because we all have a busy and stressful day ahead of us tomorrow."

"He's right, you know." Charlie offered Ginny a roguish wink, and she giggled. "He's got a demanding night ahead of him tomorrow."

"If you don't shut your trap, I'll murder you, and force Louis to arrive early, and be my best man," threatened the oldest Weasley sibling, as he rose, and his two companions followed him.

When Ginny had returned her bedroom, and her two brothers had climbed back under their covers, Bill still found it impossible to sleep, most likely because he had added more sugar to his blood. Apparently, his roommate was having similar struggles, for he mumbled, "Speaking of weddings―"

"I wasn't aware we were discussing any such subject."

"Well, now we are." In the dark, Bill could envision the other's glare. "Anyway, Tonks married Remus, then."

"Yeah, that's right. Tonks told me that she wrote you an owl, and you returned it somewhat tersely," replied Bill. "I explained to her that it was probably nothing personal, and that you were just under a ton of pressure, because a dragon was about to escape, or roast one of your friends, or something like that."

"You were right about that, as I was busy with a dragon," Charlie assented. He continued so quietly that his comrade could not be positive that he did not imagine the final words, "I was slaying a dragon in my chest, actually."

Silence again flooded the bedroom, and Bill was commencing to drift off, when Charlie commented, "Do you ever consider how weird it is that we end up wedded to only one person, when really there are probably at least several people that we could have been content with in matrimony? Do you ever wonder if you could have ended up with one of your old sweethearts, if just one scene had played out differently, you know, if you hadn't been headstrong, or said the wrong thing, or something?"

"To be honest, no, I haven't," confessed Bill. "I don't really think that I was meant to be more than friends with any of my former sweethearts, though. Fleur's my true love, and all the ladies I've dated before pale in comparison to her. Why do you ask?"

"I guess― being back in England, and seeing Tonks, makes me wonder how our relationship could have differed if we had stayed together after Hogwarts, and if I had tried harder to convince her to come around prior to my departure for Romania."

"Do you love her?" Bill asked sympathetically, his heart going out to his roommate if that was indeed the case. He couldn't picture a more painful chronic ailment than unrequited love.

"No," answered Charlie, too swiftly for earnestness. "We had our little fling in school, and that turned out to be a mess. Our ship has sailed and sunk, thank you very much."

"Good night, then." Bill didn't know what else to say to his untruthful sibling.

"Night."

The next morning Bill's hands were trembling so much that he couldn't attach his tie to his suit properly in his dressing room. Making a mental note to lower the amount of black coffee he consumed in the mornings, because it obviously handicapped him, he thrust the tie at his best man, and asked, "Would you mind putting this on for me?"

"Of course not, if you trust me." Charlie slipped the tie out of his fingers, and looped it around his neck like a noose.

"Why wouldn't I have faith in you when you're my best man?" demanded the groom as his brother's fumbling fingers knotted his tie for him.

"Hmm, maybe because I have the fashion sense of a slug," the best man snorted. He finished with Bill's tie, and clapped him on the shoulder, as he whirled him about to study his reflection in the mirror behind the pair of them. "I think you look dashing. What do you reckon?"

"I suppose I appear as handsome as I can now," Bill informed him gloomily, staring at the scars that marred his features.

"I'm sorry." Charlie's face showed how discomfited he was. "When I heard about Grayback's attack, and what it had done to you, I wished that I had been in your spot more than I have ever wished for anything in my life, even more than I wanted new brooms when I was on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You're my brother, and I know that your appearance matters to you, and I don't give a gnat's dropping about my looks, so it seemed that it would be far more just if I had been the one whose face had been ravaged by that stupid werewolf."

Chagrin swamped Bill at his sibling's words. How could he be so selfish, and vain? He had a family and a bride that loved him― weren't Charlie's sentiments proof of that? And only an imbecile would prefer good looks to love, and he was not a fool. Grinning, he punched his companion's arm lightly, and stated aloud, "Don't ever express anything like that again, because you are worth far more to me than my appearance, and don't ever doubt that. That being said, I would rather be scarred myself than let you be scarred for me."

"But I don't care about how I look," protested Charlie plaintively, as though the other man were a simpleton who had missed the crux of his argument.

"Yeah, but I want to continue to harbor under the illusion that I can shield you, little brother," Bill chuckled.

"I'm not that much younger than you." A scowl twisted Charlie's lips now.

"Maybe not, but you are at least a foot smaller than me."

Before Charlie could retort to this insult, Mr. Curtis distracted them by popping his head into the room, and announcing in a stage whisper, "Gentlemen, it's time." Obediently, the two Weasleys filed out of the dressing room, and into the side of the marquee, averting their eyes from the guests assembled in the seats before them, as that would probably make them vomit all over their dress robes. Instead of studying the congregation, Bill stared up at the ceiling of the marquee, and recited the 'Our Father' and the 'Hail Mary.' Maybe the appearance of piety would be a boon to his marriage with Fleur. Well, at any rate, it was worth a shot, he decided.

He was in the middle of his third 'Hail Mary,' when he was interrupted by a collective gasp issuing from the flock of witches and wizards in the audience. Turning his head, he saw that Fleur was gliding down the aisle with her beaming father as a bouncing escort. Doubtlessly, everyone's breath was caught, as his was, by the angelic silver glow that she seemed to emit, and he reminded himself to tell her that she should wear white everyday, even though that might result in his dying of a lack of oxygen to his lungs. Ah, well, at least he would die a contented man, and that was all one could really ask for in this vain world, anyhow. On her heels, Ginny and Gabrielle, two visions in gold, looked even more gorgeous than usual, their beauty enhanced, rather than diminished in the light Fleur cast about her, although Bill did find himself wishing that Fleur was not so attractive in her gown…

His musings were interrupted at this point when Monsieur Delacour handed Fleur to him, and he took her arm, and guided her to stand next to him. As soon as Fleur was situated, the priest began in a slightly singsong voice that did not aggravate Bill as much as it typically would have done, due to the festive, fairy-dream atmosphere engulfing the marquee, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls, William Arthur Weasley and Fleur Isabelle Delacour…"

At this juncture, Auntie Muriel could not restrain her gossiping any longer, and pronounced in a tone that everyone present could hear, unless they were deaf, "Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely, but I must say that Ginerva's dress is far too low cut." To his humiliation and horror, for once, Bill actually found he agreed with Muriel's analysis, when he watched Ginny wink at Harry out of the corner of his eye. Lord, his sister should not be winking at any boy that wasn't her blood brother, especially when she was wearing a gown like that…

He returned to the present as the priest entered into his homily. "Love is a Commitment and a Sacrifice (Matt 22:35-40; Rom 12:1-2; Eph 5:25). We hear the word love used so often today and it has so many different meanings depending on its context. But when Jesus said to love God and love our neighbor (Matt 22:35-40), in the language of the Scriptures, he spoke about a very special kind of love, a godly love, unselfish and self-sacrificing love. True love is not just a feeling or emotion that changes. True love is a commitment, a sacrifice of oneself for the other. Therefore what a beautiful and godly thing Christian marriage is, a promise of lifelong fidelity and self-sacrifice. The self-sacrifice mentioned in the reading from Paul's Letter to the Romans that you chose is self-sacrifice to God but I think we could say it also applies to marriage: "I urge you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God, your spiritual worship." (Rom 12:1)

"During your marriage, Fleur and William, you will indeed be constantly offering yourselves to God and to each other in so many ways, that we can indeed say you will be offering your bodies to God and each other as a living sacrifice. One of the ways in which we sacrifice is to live as true followers of Christ especially when this is counter-cultural. So Paul went on to write,

"Do not conform yourselves to this age but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and pleasing and perfect." (Rom 12:2)

"This idea of self-sacrifice in marriage is expressed very clearly in another New Testament text, in the Letter to the Ephesians:

"Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ loved the church and handed himself over for her" (Eph 5:25)

"How did Christ love the Church? The text gives the answer, he handed himself over for her. He loved the Church so much that he gave his life for her, to the very last drop of his blood on Calvary. So husbands are to love their wives by sacrificing themselves for their wives to the very end just as Christ gave his life for the Church, and wives, by extension, can also be expected to do the same."

Here the priest paused, and took a deep breath to fill his lungs again, and then glanced so somberly at Bill that he felt his stomach perform an amazing series of acrobatic feats inside him, and demanded, "Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do," Bill established with more firmness than he believed he could maintain at a time like this, though he did feel a quiver in his spine at the final words, his eyes penetrating Fleur, not the priest, as he was, after all, making these vows to her, not the priest.

Satisfied, the priest turned to Fleur. "And do you, Fleur Isabelle, take William Arthur to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do." Fleur drew herself up, and looked around the room, as though darting anyone to challenge her.

Nobody did, and the priest announced, "You may now kiss the bride," as if Bill had never done any such thing before to Fleur. Still, now that permission had been granted, he leaned forward, and kissed her with more fire and passion than he had ever done previously, and soon he found himself wishing fervently that they had not been interrupted by the silver stars and the golden balloons that dropped onto their heads, and he also wished that the terror twins would cease wolf-whistling, though that might be their way of expressing approval for him. As Bill reluctantly detached himself from his new wife, the balloons burst over their heads, releasing birds of paradise and tiny golden wedding bells, which added their sweet songs to the din that now filled the marquee.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the priest. "Please stand up!" When the masses complied with his request, he flicked his wand, and the seats on which they had been sitting soared into the air gracefully, as the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so that everybody stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a lovely view of the sunlit orchard, and the surrounding countryside. Then, a poll of molten gold spread from the center of the tent to form a dancing floor, and the hovering chairs regrouped themselves about tiny, white-clothed tables.

As the golden jacketed band trooped toward the podium, and waiters appeared bearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, firewhiskey, butterbeer, tarts, and sandwiches, Bill and Fleur stepped to the side slightly, so that well-wishers could come over to them without trampling them.

"Congratulations!" Tonks yelled excitedly, bustling up to them with Remus on her arm. She kissed Fleur on her cheek, and then hugged Bill. "Oh, I'm so happy for you both! I wish you nothing but the best!"

"Yes, we wish you well," contributed Remus quietly with a small smile. He clapped Bill on the shoulder, and then offered Fleur a rectangular gift. "I hope you enjoy your present, and find it very useful." As the crowd surged around them, he observed, "They're getting antsy, so we'd better go, Tonks." Tonks nodded in confirmation, and the tow of them set off to find seats at a nearby table.

A half hour later, the horde of well-wishers about them was finally thinning, and the mountain of gifts at the table behind them was certainly about as high as Mt. Everest, when a man wearing vibrant yellow dress robes stepped toward them, a somewhat vacant expression on his face.

"It's old Xeno Lovegood," he muttered under his breath to Fleur. "He's a psychopath, though a harmless one. I wouldn't have invited him myself, but Mum made me."

"Be quiet, you fool." Fleur nudged him in the ribcage. "'E might 'ear you."

Before Bill could counter this, Xeno Lovegood had joined them, remarking, "Congratulations. You know, you might end up with a little free entertainment at your wedding, because my dear daughter Luna and I chanced to see a handful of gnomes gamboling about the garden, and one of them bit my Luna, and you know that a gnome bite may prompt one to discover all sorts of newfound talents, especially in the fields of music and poetry."

"Um, we can hardly wait to witness such an occurrence," Bill answered with as much politeness as he could muster through his shock, as Fleur's brow furrowed, suggesting that she thought she had misunderstood some English word or phrase, when, in fact, she probably had not, and had every right to be bewildered by this eccentric lunatic.

"Luckily for you," resumed Xeno, "I did not foresee that Luna would be bitten by a gnome, and so I purchased you a gift." He placed a gray spiral horn into an astounded Fleur's palm. "You have been honored to receive a horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Luna and I found that one and additional one on holiday last summer."

Before Bill and Fleur could stutter out some semblance of gratitude, Xeno had trailed off, probably to find his child, so they could discuss imaginary creatures together. "Fleur," he ordered through gritted teeth, "make sure that we do not take that thing to Shell Cottage with us."

"Why not?" Fleur's eyebrows arched. "It's peculiar, but it seems 'armless to me."

"That's as harmless as an enraged female dragon," he educated her grimly, placing the horn delicately on a table near the other wedding presents, and paying that nobody brushed against it. "It happens to be an Erumpent horn, which is not exactly something I want in my house, even if we don't have to contend with baby proofing it yet, since it explodes at the slightest touch."

Fleur stared at him, but she was unable to question him further, because at that moment, Louis bustled up to them, and squeezed Bill's upper arm in a gruff greeting, before pushing a mound of flowers into Fleur's hands with a French comment that Bill could not translate. Beaming, Fleur responded in French, and then she and Louis switched back into English again. To Bill, Louis explained, "Never fear, my greedy Curse-Breaker. I have more wedding gifts for you two than just flowers."

Leaning forward to conceal his present from the masses, he shoved an Eye of Horus into Bill's hands. "There you go. I risked everything for you by removing that from an old tomb just so you and your beautiful bride would be protected from ill omens in your new home, and you know how much trouble I would be in at Gringotts if someone found out what I had done, and I'm still not entirely certain that you're more valuable to me than my skin."

"Foulbreath and Rottentooth didn't notice that you stole this for me?" Bill couldn't keep the dubiousness out of his tone.

"Actually, they were astonishingly altruistic, and allowed me to remove the Eye of Horus from the pyramid, as long as I told you that they chipped in, as well," Louis smirked, just as he had done when they had been in Egypt together as a team.

"Tell them that I said thanks," Bill told his buddy. "Make sure you explain to them that I'm flattered that I'm worth more than money to them."

"Consider it done."

"So how's Egypt?"

"Same as always, I suppose." Louis shrugged. "I haven't been around there much recently, as I've been in France caring for my ailing father whose mind is going."

"I'm― I'm sorry to hear that." Since Louis had never been tight with his dad, Bill did not know exactly what to offer in response to this, and so settled for this trite, classic remark.

"Yep, he's so crazy that he told me that he loved me when I visited him in the hospital." Louis made an odd noise between a throat clearing, and a scoff. "I rolled my eyes, and informed him that I was not Antoine or Francois, but he barked at me that he knew who I was. What really bugs me is that I haven't determined whether or not he was in earnest, or just covering his blunder, not wanting to appear weak around me even while he was perishing, and I can't help but ponder…if it was true, why the hell wouldn't he have told me that he loved me before? Would it have killed him to do so? Why couldn't he express his love of me if he had it, huh?"

"I don't have an answer to that, I'm afraid," Bill whispered, blessing his father for his open affection.

"Well, I didn't come to be the party pooper, believe it, or not." Louis regained his composure, seeming to remember where he was. "I've got a box of fine champagne for you two, so that you can occasionally get so wasted that you'll forget the war." As he established as much, he dumped a crate on the floor underneath the table that was groaning piteously under the weight of the wedding presents.

Once he had put down the present, Louis straightened, and announced, "I'm going to go and meet some of your lovely bride's relations."

"Seeing if you can finally settle down, you filthy old bachelor?" Bill teased him.

"No." Louis' face hardened again. "I don't wish to marry, because then my wife might expect me to have children by her, and I could never be a father, because then I might turn out like my own, and destroy an innocent, if little monsters in the guise of youth can be constituted as innocent, life, and I wouldn't want that. I've seen that people treat their offspring as their parents behaved toward them when I watched how Antoine and Francois dealt with my nieces and nephews."

"If you feel that way, then you can always wander over to the bachelor table, and have a drink with my brother Charlie, and Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper." Bill nodded at the table where his best man and the half giant were drinking tankards of firewhiskey, and singing a ballad of some sort on the top of their lungs.

"I wouldn't want anything to do with another Weaasley or a Hogwarts employee," sniffed Louis, as he headed off into the crowds, no doubt on a quest to find some of Fleur's relations, or, that failing, a French dish, as Bill swept Fleur onto the dance floor at last, to wild applause.

He was barely conscious of all the gazes riveted upon them, as he twirled her about, looking deep into her eyes, and finding that his love for her was increasing exponentially by the second, which meant that he would be exploding very soon, social faux pass or no. He was still lost in the sea of her eyes when his dad lead Madame Delacour onto the dance floor, and when Monsieur Delacour and his mother joined them a second later.

As he and his new wife swayed softly to the music, trembling like grass in a gentle spring breeze, Bill was convinced that he had somehow entered heaven without going through the agony of death.


	65. Chapter 65

Disclaimer: Like George Washington, I can't tell a lie, and so, no, I didn't write Harry Potter, but this fanfiction is all written by me, however

Disclaimer: Like George Washington, I can't tell a lie, and so, no, I didn't write Harry Potter, but this fanfiction is all written by me, however. (Also, on a side note, because I can't tell a falsehood, the cherry tree incident did not happen― it was invented by a nineteenth century "biographer," but it would have been cool if it was true.)

Author's Note: I admit that this chapter was a challenging one to write, because I guess I'm not too skilled at writing action sequences, so I apologize in advance for that. If you have any suggestions on how to make it better (besides watching war films, because I did that in A.P. Psychology on Friday, and, to my knowledge it hasn't been of any great assistance) please leave a review, and I shall do my honest best to improve.

Happy Memorial Day, and thank you to all present and former service men and women in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, or Marines, and any other branch I might have forgotten. We appreciate your sacrifice.

Reviews: By now, you've probably figured out that I'd love to hear from you if you have the time and energy to leave a review, so I won't dwell on the point.

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Darkness Descending

He wasn't certain how long he twirled about in a paradise with Fleur, because, like in heaven, time had no sway over them in their bliss, before the serenity inside them, and the peace of the world surrounding them was abruptly shattered like a mirror crashing against a tile floor when Kingsley Shacklebolt's lynx Patronus landed gracefully in the middle of the gliding couples on the dance floor. As a puzzled, astonished silence fell, the lynx announced in a carrying, deep, and slow voice that was characteristic of its creator, "The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

For a moment, the scene froze, suspended in mid-action, as the guests struggled to absorb this revelation. The only person who moved a muscle was Fleur. Her numb fingers unintentionally dropped her bouquet, but no eager ladies who wanted to discover who would wed next leapt forward to snatch it.

Then, as the realization that You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters had conquered the rancid government from within, and that Death Eaters would be calling in a matter of minutes, panic levels rose. When the panic levels rose, chaos ensued, as beings stampeded like a herd of terrified zebras that had scented a pride of lionesses, in every possible direction, pushing each other about, snapping at others to get out of the way, and grabbing the hands of friends so they could Disapparate together. Over the din, Fleur hollered to her husband, her voice, despite its volume sounding like no more than a whisper due to the mayhem about them, "Should we Disapparate, as well?"

"No," Bill responded firmly after a second's consideration, shaking his head. "It will appear awfully suspicious if we do, because after all, people are supposed to attend their own wedding celebrations. The best we can pray for is that H-Barney, I mean, Ron, and Hermione managed to Disapparate, because Barney's the one they want to capture, and that is the reason that they're plaguing us today."

"If zey can't get zeir filthy 'ands on Barney, zen zey will question us." Tears welled up in Fleur's eyes, but she did not allow them to trickle down her cheeks. "And if we do not provide zem with ze answers zey want, zen zey will torture us, and, yet, we must not give in to zem too quickly, or zey will be suspicious."

"Yes, but luckily, we have little information on their whereabouts, so we can't betray them," he mumbled grimly, squeezing her fingers more tightly than he ever had in his life, and uncertain whether he was doing so to chivalrously grant her comfort, or to gain security and confidence himself. Maybe he wanted to do both, as love was not designed to be a one-way street.

Before Fleur could reply, a knot of masked witches and wizards Appararated onto the dance floor, and the collective anxiety of the crowd heightened to epidemic proportions, as the three dozen guests or so that remained intensified their efforts to flee the menace that had descended upon them. Unfortunately, their flights were foiled by a line of Death Eaters, the burly thug ones, not the brains, who thrust the retreating beings into the tables with enough velocity to knock them out cold. Now there were at least ten figures crumbled spread-eagled on the ground, scarlet blood spilling from head wounds inflicted on them by the sides of the tables they had been shoved into, and the rest of the people who had been contemplating running away halted suddenly, realizing that such a tactic would backfire upon them. The screams reached a mighty fever-pitch crescendo as people recognized that there was no escape for any of them.

"Cast a shield charm," Bill hissed at his wife, trusting the shouts to cover his directive. Raising his own wand, he muttered, "Protego." As Fleur obeyed, her eyes wide, he glanced about him frantically, and was relieved to find that his parents, Charlie, Louis, Remus, and Tonks had all cast similar protective charms around themselves.

He and Fleur had barely managed to cast their charms about themselves when two masked beings approached them, not having detected Harry in the masses, their black cloaks billowing behind them. "You must be the bride and groom," drawled a voice from under one mask. "I suppose congratulations are due, as the Weasleys have sullied their blood yet again by marrying a dirty halfbreed, and I really hope you don't mind gate-crashers too much."

"Be quiet, Lucius," snarled a woman's voice from beneath her own hood. "We don't have time to insult the enemy at the moment." Looking at Bill and Fleur, she amended, "Right now all the Ministry requires from you is information― information you will furnish us with, one way or the other."

"We won't hesitate to torture you, or any of your companions," added Lucius Malfoy.

"We know zat already." Fleur's eyes contracted. "Do you want to tell us something zat we didn't already know, or would you prefer that we return to our dancing? We 'ad not quite finished ze last song before you so rudely interrupted us, you see."

At this, the woman raised her wand to attack Fleur, but her wand was swatted aside by Malfoy before she could cast so much as a Stunning Spell. "Not yet, Bellatrix. It's better to have something hanging over people's heads when questioning them. Now, we wish to know where Harry Potter, murderer of Albus Dumbledore―"

"Alleged murderer of Dumbledore," Bill interjected, "as he has not yet stood trial, and, therefore, has not been convicted of any wrongdoing to my knowledge."

"Simpleton," snickered Bellatrix Lestrange, "don't you recognize that the mere fact that Harry Potter is running from the law is proof of his guilt?"

"I only recognize the rule of law," he educated her, "and that demands that he be perceived as innocent until proven guilty, and convicted by a jury."

"If you respect the law and justice so much, which is certainly most admirable," Malfoy noted in a silky voice that reminded Bill of a spider weaving a web to trap unsuspecting flies, and Bill had the unpleasant thought that he was the bug Malfoy was aiming to capture, "then you must allow beings that are charged with crimes to be taken in for questioning and trail. That entails informing us as to Potter's whereabouts."

"I'm afraid I can't help you." Bill kept his tone light and pleasant, sensing that it would rile the Death Eaters more than anything.

"Why not?" Bellatrix's wand rose threateningly. "Do you need some motivation to do so, because we'd love nothing more than to provide you with it?"

"I don't know any more about Potter's current location than you do." Bill's wand mirrored her movements, poised to defend himself if she assailed him.

"Don't feed me that rot," snapped Bellatrix. "There is a rumor circulating that he was invited to this wedding!"

"You might not want to make a 'abit of believing everything zat you 'ear," Fleur cut in, her nose in the air. "Ze other day, I 'eard zis most 'orrendous rumor zat my cosmetic company is going out of business, but it turned out zat zere was absolutely no substance to it when I asked ze man at ze shop about it, and it seems zat I 'ad wasted a lot of stress on nothing. Rumors are very tricky things, oui."

"So, Harry Potter wasn't at your wedding, then?" demanded Malfoy softly, eyeing her contemptuously, apparently convinced she was a bimbo.

"Nope," Bill answered earnestly, "there was no such person at our nuptials. You can examine our invitations, and our seating arrangements, and see for yourself that we did not plan for a Harry Potter to be in attendance, if you like."

"Such things can be changed!" Bellatrix snarled.

"Not in the amount of time we had." Bill shrugged calmly. "You lot have a knack of just jumping out on people. You surprised us so much that we hardly had time to cast defensive spells upon ourselves, even. Very impressive, if you ask me."

As the two Death Eaters scrutinized him with narrowed slits for eyes, Bill surveyed his surroundings, and felt a chortle that he could not release form inside him as he watched Louis insist repeatedly in rapid, indignant French, with numerous insults to the Death Eaters' parentage, that he did not understand a word of English, and only comprehended French and Gobbledegoook. Monsieur and Madame Delacour were explaining to the Death Eaters that they had not seen any Harry Potter at the Burrow prior to the marriage ceremony, Fleur's cousins were scoffing that asking them to recall an Englishman by the name of 'Arry Potter was like asking them to recollect a specific John Smith, Ginny was establishing that she would hex Potter if he dared to come anywhere near her, because he had dumped her at Dumbledore's funeral, and his parents and Tonks and Remus were all stating empathetically that Harry had never been present at the wedding.

"Will your memory improve if I use the Cruciatus Curse upon you?" Bellatrix inquired.

"No." Bill studied her coolly, as though he was unimpressed by the insinuation, although he was petrified by it, because he did not want to find out if he would indeed break under the torture and betray his friends, or if he would endure the pain, and end up in a lunatic ward like the Longbottoms. Yet he sensed that he had to conceal his fear, or else he would weaken, while his adversaries gained strength from his terror, because such was the power of evil. "Incidentally, I would also not advise that you employ the Cruciatus Curse upon me. Not that I am too fussed about it, myself, mind you, but I do have a handful of friends among the goblins who would be a little― oh, enraged, I suppose you could say― if I went around the twist, and was unable to work, and it was all your fault. After all, Curse-Breakers don't come easily, and I'm one of the few in the London branch, and, I imagine, your new regime demands a banking system, just as any form of government does. Of course, there is also the minor point that there is no profit in you torturing me, because I don't have any more information about Potter that you can extract from me."

"Fine." Malfoy offered a brief, furious nod. "However, I propose that you bear in mind that we will be watching your family very closely for signs of disloyalty, and contact with Potter, and if any of you are caught on the wrong side of the law, we will place you in Azkaban, after we have tortured all the information we can out of you, leaving you but a shell of your former self."

"That's the fate that greets those who are behind the curve of change, as you and your family are," finished Bellatrix. "All those who hinder my Master's path must be destroyed."

"You have been warned." Malfoy jabbed his wand into the chests of the bride and groom before he gestured to the other Death Eaters, and they all headed up to the Burrow as one unit. They inspected every inch of the Burrow, but were incapable of discovering any clue of Harry's current hide-out, and were forced to stalk back out to the marquee, and interrogate everyone again. To their exasperation, they were unable to glean any more information out of the guests, and after another fruitless hour of questioning, they were forced to admit defeat, and Disapparated with final threats and reminders of their vigilance.

Once she was positive that all her foes had vanished, Fleur began to sob into her spouse's shoulder. "I 'ate zem so much!" she declared vehemently, her fists balling. "'Ow dare zey burst in like zat on our wedding? What gives zem ze right to ruin our happiness like zat, huh?"

"Hush," soothed Bill, stroking her quivering back. "Don't give them so much power over us, for they have not robbed us of our joy, despite their intense endeavors to do so. Remember that they have not found Harry Potter, and they have gained no more intelligence about his whereabouts, which means that the victory is ours, and nobody was seriously hurt, since those who were knocked out can be healed in a heartbeat by Mum."

"You're so brave," she whispered into his neck.

"You flatter me," he chuckled, pushing her gently away from him, and wiping away her tears gingerly. "I was terrified, and you were just as great against the Death Eaters as I was, and we weren't wrong to be afraid, since Death Eaters are lethal beings. Fear isn't a sin, as long as you don't let it dominate you, and destroy you. We were brave because we remained faithful to Harry despite our fears."

"Let's go help your mama bandage ze injured." Fleur cupped his chin in her hands. "When everyone is mended, we shall go to Shell Cottage, as planned."

"You go assist her," agreed Bill. "I'll be over in a moment, but first I want to make sure that Dad has contacted Ron, explaining that everybody is perfectly fine. I don't want Harry to believe that we have suffered for him."

"Very well zen." Fleur nodded, and dashed over to the wounded as fast as her gown and high heels permitted. Watching her kneel beside the bleeding beings spread-eagled upon the ground and place bots of cloth over their gaping foreheads, as he strode over to his father, Bill reckoned that she had never appeared like more of an angel than she did at the moment.

"Dad?" he asked his ashen-faced father as he stepped up to him. "Did you contact Ron, and explain to him that everything is okay on the home front?"

"Yes, I did." Mr. Weasley nodded wearily. "I told him via Patronus that we were all unharmed, and that he must not reply to my message, because we are all being watched."

"Good," Bill grinned weakly.

"I hope that it is not unlucky to have one's marriage interrupted by a bunch of Death Eaters," observed Mr. Weasley as they crossed over to wrap up the heads of the injured, while Mrs. Weasley darted up to the Burrow to brew a healing potion for them.

"I reckon that we'll be fine, since it's not Friday the thirteenth," responded his son, as he bandaged up his first sliced head, determinedly not looking at the face of the wounded, because he did not desire to recognize the being whose crusted, rust-colored blood he was touching. "I also suspect that Fleur and I will make considerable headway into Louis' champagne this evening, just trying to stop our hands from trembling."

"Don't get drunk."

"Why not?" Bill wanted to know, moving onto another wounded woman. "It is my wedding night, after all, and besides, it's the rest of the planet that's drunk, not me, and so the world makes far more sense when I'm drunk."

"Getting drunk is a temporary fix that treats the symptoms, but fails to address the problem," argued Mr. Weasley, as he, too, started bandaging another guest.

"I'm all for temporary fixes that will cure the symptoms until the major problem, the war, is over," Bill smiled at his dad. "However, I'll try not to get too drunk, as I want to be fully aware, so that I can get the maximum pleasure out of my wedding night."

Mr. Weasley was deprived the opportunity to respond when Louis dropped down beside them, his jaw clenched more tightly than Bill had ever witnessed it. "Cowards," he grumbled, as he wrapped up a lady's cut, "pushing a female about like that. At least, my father confined himself to hitting his own male children."

"Well, you can't expect people who are too ashamed to display their faces openly to have much honor," Bill educated him. More affably, he added, "Excellent job taunting them earlier, though. You almost made me burst a rib from holding in my laughter."

"It was my pleasure, I assure you, or else I wouldn't have done it," smirked Louis, as he finished with the woman, and moved onto his next patient. "I took immense satisfaction in basking in the warmth of the knowledge that my Death Eater assumed me useless and idiotic merely because I supposedly did not chatter in his revolting, course tongue, when in fact, such a false belief only revealed his own stupidity. After all, I could have told him, if I had felt like it that even someone educated at a substandard institution such as Hogwarts would have learned about things like aliases and Polyjuice Potion, and even a pathetic wizard like say, Bill Weasley, could have concocted a dose of Polyjuice Potion. I could also have reminded him that red hair is not in any shortage, so it could easily be placed in such a potion, and that since there are so many of them, nobody would care a whit about an extra Weasley romping about."

"Not everyone can be as clever as you," Bill laughed, admiring the acuteness of his friend's agile mind.

"No," conceded Louis, "but must they be as thick as the Death Eaters?"

"It's a major bonus to us that they are that dumb," the other reminded him with a snicker. More seriously, he continued, "Oh, and thanks for the champagne. Fleur and I undoubtedly will consume at least have of it tonight, I imagine."

"It was nothing, because I promise that I would never go out of my way to do anything for you, and I only got that for you, because I am aware that you miss the quality of French food now that you no longer slave away with me, which is why you have married a French lass, who really is much too good to squander on the British."

"You're just jealous, because nobody would want to wed you."

"Believe what you want." Louis rolled his eyes.

"I will."

Luckily, the Death Eaters attack did not destroy entirely Bill and Fleur's wedding day, for they were able to depart the Burrow for Shell Cottage at four o'clock that evening, and were able to enjoy a romantic dinner together, in which they did indeed drink some of Louis' champagne, though not nearly as much as Bill had implied they would, and nothing had any power to destroy the pleasure of what they did together for the rest of the evening.

However, the dark side had not been vanquished, and like the hydra of Greek lore, returned with three more heads for the chopping off of one. You-Know-Who and his minions reasserted their power over the nation by publishing in the _Daily Prophet_ the following article:

_Muggle-Born Register_

_The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called "Muggle-Borns," the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets. Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-Born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force._

"What utter nonsense," Bill complained to Fleur, biting into his fried egg with far more force than such a task demanded. "That's the Ministry, though: A million whoppers served a day. Although I must establish that they could have invented a better story, you know one that actually made sense, as even a child could spot the lie in that one. After all, if magical powers could be stolen, why the hell would there be Squibs?"

"Maybe Squibs 'ave 'ad zere powers stolen from zem, according to ze Ministry," suggested Fleur with a frost in her tone. "Zat seems logical."

"Yes, I suppose that's what they'll claim." Bill speared a home fry, taking out his ire at an unjust world on his meal. Stealing himself, he resumed reading his daily serving of falsehoods:

_The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-Born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-Born Registration Commission._

"Zey can't do that," Fleur whispered, staring at the paper.

"Nobody will stop them," her husband sighed.

"Zat must be against ze law!"

"Then they'll make it legal. Never forget that they have all the power now." Bill shook his head, feeling rather like Cassandra of Troy. "By this time tomorrow, they'll be rounding up all the Muggle-Borns, and dragging them in for questioning."

"What will happen to them?" she asked, looking nauseated.

"I don't know. I just don't know." After that, silence fell between them again, as they both reflected on just how little they were capable of doing to combat the darkness that was descending upon them all, and choking them all in its stifling death embrace. Bill prayed fervently that they would not become sailors lost out upon the sea, and that their guiding lamp, Harry, would not burn out anytime soon.


	66. Chapter 66

Author's Note: I hope this covers some of the war against Voldemort and the Death Eaters as Order members outside the trio might perceive it, and I hope that you will all enjoy my interpretation of events

Author's Note: I hope this covers some of the war against Voldemort and the Death Eaters as Order members outside the trio might perceive it, and I hope that you will all enjoy my interpretation of events.

Reviews (points like Uncle Sam): I want you to review my fic.

Disclaimer: If I own Harry Potter, that's news to me.

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Fighting the Night

Two days after that article on the Ministry's horrible policy toward Muggle-Borns, a knock rattled the front door of Shell Cottage, and the anxiety that hummed under the surface of Bill and Fleur's existence intensified so that it was comparable to a burning flame. Reflexively, because, in this war, pausing long enough to think of a rational response might be the last thing you ever did, the couple leapt off the sofa where they had been supping together, and withdrew their wands from their robes, centering them on the door.

"Who is it?" Bill shouted. "Be warned that we're armed, and won't hesitate to dispose of vermin!"

"That won't be necessary." What sounded like Remus' voice reached his ears through the wood. "For it is I, Remus John Lupin, werewolf, and husband to Nymphadora Tonks."

Lowering his wand, but not tucking it away yet, Bill strode over to the door, and pulled it open to reveal the slight, tattered frame of Remus. "Great to see you again," he remarked pleasantly, gesturing for his visitor to cross the threshold quickly. When Remus hurried inside, he indicated a lounge chair situated by the roaring fire. "Do sit down, and help yourself to some of our dinner, if you'd like."

"No, thank you, but I can't et at the moment." As he established as much, Remus crumbled into the lounge chair, and slumped forward in defeat, burying his head in his palms. "In fact, I don't think that I shall ever be capable of consuming food again."

"Would you care to share with the rest of us why you're planning on starving yourself, or would you prefer to carry your secret with you to the grave?" inquired Bill dryly, arching his eyebrows at his friend.

"Tonks is pregnant with my child." Remus' tone was heavier than a full-grown elephant.

"I fail to see 'ow zat is a bad thing," Fleur remarked sharply, cerulean eyes narrowed.

"Then you've forgotten what I am," laughed Remus with more bitterness than mirth. "It's slipped your mind that I'm a werewolf, and, therefore, any offspring that I create will most likely inherit my affliction―"

"Zey will cross zat 'urdle with your example to guide zem, zen," replied Fleur with an unconcerned shrug, but Remus did not appear to hear her, as he rambled on:

"If by some miracle, they don't inherit my ailment, then they'll be ashamed of me, just as they would hate me for giving them the werewolf gene if they inherited it."

"What are you saying?" Bill asked, not liking where he sensed his guest was headed with this theme. "You can't possibly be thinking of abandoning Tonks, and your unborn baby."

"Not abandoning. I'm just― just distancing myself from them, for their own good," the other man faltered.

"You have got to be kidding me," mumbled Bill, shaking his head in disapproval. As Remus glared at him, he went on, "I am loathe to remind you, but you swore before God, several months ago that you would stand beside Nymphadora Anne Tonks in poverty and wealth, and in sickness and in health, until death separated you two, and those vows are constant, and they don't wash away because you find them inconvenient, or unpleasant―"

"I don't need another lecture from someone several years my junior, thank you, as Harry's already played the role of insolent young pup today," Remus snapped, lurching out of his seat.

"You saw Harry?" Bill's eyes widened, shocked enough by this prospect to ignore the insults. "Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He's at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with your youngest brother and Hermione, and, apparently, he's doing well enough to refuse my assistance in their quest, and to call me a bloody coward. After all that I have done for that boy, he dares to address me like that, and he has the audacity to accuse me of a lack of courage when I had the nerve to offer to risk my neck for him and his companions! He had the guts to call me craven because I did not want my baby to suffer for me!"

When he heard this, Bill realized that Remus was stung by Harry's words, and that it would be best to heal the raw wounds rather than slice them open again if he wished to induce him to return to his proper location at Tonks' side as she prepared to give birth to their child. Keeping this in mind, he gently pushed his visitor back into the lounge chair, and soothed, "Relax, mate. I don't want you blowing a major blood vessel all over my new living room carpet, if you don't mind terribly. Besides, there's no need for you to be so angry at Harry."

"That's news to me," Remus stated quietly, his eyes smoldering flint.

"Look, I am aware that what Harry said to you was really hurtful, and, to a Gryffindor, insanely offensive, but if you survey the whole affair from his point of view, you can't remain furious at him for too long," reasoned Bill. "Remember, he's lost just about every father figure he has ever know to the icy scythe of death, so he probably perceives a father's abandonment of a child as a mortal sin."

"And you're telling me that you don't when you were chiding me for the same crime two or three moments ago?" scoffed Remus.

"Well, I'm not going to pretend for you that I don't believe that once you've found someone you love that you should throw it all away just because the world reckons that your relationship isn't pure enough for them in their bigotry, ignorance, and pride," Bill countered, reaching out and squeezing his wife's hand. "Also, I won't lie and say that I think you should never make contact with your child, and force another kid to grow up without a dad, and I'm certainly not going to inform you that you will make a lame parent when you will be great at it, as long as you stick around."

"Don't let ze rest of ze planet dictate what you do," affirmed Fleur, tears sparkling like diamonds in her eyes, "for it is to yourself zat your must answer to, and surely your 'eart tells you zat your must take take responsibility for what you 'ave done with Tonks, instead of running around with a bunch of adolescents on a mission zat zey seem to be able to 'andle zemselves."

"It's never a brilliant idea to charge at one thing if all you're doing is fleeing something else," her husband added softly, as Remus rubbed his arm against his forehead, as if he had just completed some form of arduous labor.

"And I think zat if you look deep inside yourself, you want to spend time with Tonks and your unborn child more zan anything," clinched Fleur.

For a long, dreadful moment, an awkward silence filled the cottage, and then broken wails, like a newborn's sobs, emerged from the hunched frame of Remus Lupin. "I hate Fenrir Grayback, for not only has he ruined my life, but he has destroyed the life of the woman I love more than anything."

"You give zat beast too much power," argued Fleur. "Only you 'ave ze power to ruin your life, which is what you're doing when you deny yourself ze opportunity to enjoy your love while you can, and your are doing more to 'urt Tonks zan Fenrir Grayback did if you break 'er 'eart by leaving her alone with your baby."

At this, Remus' head jerked up, and he stared at her with a peculiar expression on his face, and, for a second, Bill feared that she had gone too far, but this proved to be an unfounded worry when Remus mumbled, "You're right, all of you. I owe it to Tonks, my baby, and myself to stick around, and I have every intention of doing so. There must be a way to let Harry know that he was right, and I was wrong, and I'm grateful to him for pointing it out to me, even though I did not wish to see." With that final statement, he rose, and directed his footsteps toward the exit.

"I think you're a very brave man to face your worst fears," Bill shouted after him before he could close the door.

"Thanks for making me think about Harry's words," hollered Lupin over his shoulder, as he departed, shutting the door in his wake.

Ironically, in the week to come, Bill would come to regard that as a type of high point in his week, because the Ministry was commencing its movements against Muggle-Borns with vigor now, and every day more witches and wizards were disappearing for questioning. The witches and wizards who were taken in for questioning due to the fact that they were of Muggle parentage never returned to work, but were instead shipped off to Azkaban for life for the crime of stealing magic from a "true" witch or wizard, and for robbing a "true" witch or wizard of their wand. Some Muggle-Borns, the ones who could spot which way the wind was blowing, decided to leave their homes, and, since they could no longer flee the country, they hid in the woods and mountains, or took to begging in Diagon Alley. It was the ones that he saw congesting the cobblestone thoroughfares of Diagon Alley everyday on his travels to and from Gringotts that tore at his heartstrings the most, because they were physical confirmation of his inability to overthrow the evil engulfing them all. All he could do to aid them was provide them with scraps of food, old blankets, and a few coins, if he was circumspect about it, as he did not want to be arrested himself, because, after all, he would be of no use to anyone in prison. Still, he knew that their pleading, gaunt, and stricken faces would haunt him for the entirety of his existence, and that was not a fate he eagerly anticipated.

On Thursday morning, just after he entered his office bearing his usual mug of steaming black coffee in his hand, everything plunged to rock bottom. When he was tossing the list of the vaults he was required to install security upgrades upon back on his marble desk, the new Curse-Breaker secretary, Nyssa Greengrass, who was as clever as a particularly thick boulder Bill thought in his more charitable moments, and was a product of several centuries gentle breading among purebloods, and whom he could not glance upon without remembering with a pang the more competent Muggle-Born Madelyn Peri, who had been forced to flee the new regime, burst into his office without knocking.

"Yes?" he arched an eyebrow at her.

"There is a man here to see you," Nyssa educated him.

"I'm not expecting anyone," responded Bill, forgetting that it was best not to utilize long answers with her, because she was bound to get bewildered with her limited intellectual capabilities. "If he wants to invest money, or to complain about an investment that has gone awry, tell him to see the appropriate department, please."

"He insists upon meeting with you personally," Nyssa maintained with the single-mindedness of individuals who could only contain one thought in their brains at a time.

"Who is this gentleman?" he pressed.

"He didn't say, and I didn't think to ask."

"That's hardly surprising as you never seem to think at all." Sighing, Bill leaned back in his seat, stretching the morning kinks out of his spinal column. "Very well, then. Please show him in, because I have nothing better to do with my life."

Not replying to this, Nyssa bustled out of the office, and he heard her high heels clacking down the corridor. Then, they clacked in his direction once more, most unfortunately, and he could hear her announcing to whoever had demanded to chat with him, "Right this way, sir. Here you are."

She had just finished this sentence when she arrived outside Bill's door. As Chris Brown stepped into his office with an assurance that implied he did so every day, Nyssa left them, closing the door behind her, in a rare display of intelligence.

"Long time, no see." Striving to conceal his astonishment at his former buddy's appearance, Bill waved a languid hand at the chair across from him. "Sit and make yourself at him, Brown, if you'd be so kind, and explain to me why you're here after two years of ignoring me."

"I― I need your help," Chris whispered, glancing frantically about the room like a trapped deer. "They've arrested Mike, and locked him up in Azkaban just because he's a Muggle-Born, and he turned in the forms like he was instructed to do by the Ministry. He's a good man who has never violated any of their laws, and they can't do this to him when his wife is pregnant with their first child after they've been trying for so long to have one― it's a girl, they got tested by the Healers, because they didn't want a surprise, and they're going to name her Natalia Marie―"

"But they can, and they did take him away," interjected Bill, his lips compressed in a grim line, "and it's exactly what the world needs at the moment: another stinking tragedy."

"Is that all you can say?" Chris exploded, brown eyes sizzling. "Too bad? In case you've forgotten, he was one of your best friends at Hogwarts, and everybody knows that you're in the anti-You-Know-Who league or whatever the rot it's called, along with the rest of your family, and, so now you are obligated to organize a break-in at Azkaban to free Mike, unless you're a selfish coward!"

"How dare you insult me in such manner when you're come into my office groveling for assistance now that it is your best friend that has been carted off?" Bill retorted, an icy wrath raging inside him. "It is you who are the selfish coward. You're the one who refused to stand up to You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters when a little action might have meant a lot, and you only care about what's going on now that you're impacted personally by it, because someone you care about has finally been dragged off, and now you see the truth too late."

"You've got to save Mike. Hate me, but save him. If you're as moral a person as you declare you are, do so even if you despise the person who asks you to do so," persisted Chris.

"If I had the ability to free Mike from Azkaban, do you figure that I'd be sitting here on my rump?" He shot his guest a withering glare. "For your edification, if I had the power to liberate the inmates in that jail, I would have done so long ago, and not waited until old school friends came crying for salvation. Do you want to know why, Chris?"

He did not bother to pause for a response, but continued, nodding out the window at Diagon Alley, which was full of Muggle-Born beggars who had been forced to abandon everything familiar to them that they cherished, "Never mind, I'll try to explain it to you, although you'll never understand, because that is the crux of the division between us. As you do, I love my family and my friends, yes, but my love and dedication has taught me something that you haven't even begun to comprehend yet: compassion."

"I have compassion!" Chris spat. "Compassion is what brought me here, you idiot! Don't think you have the right to condemn me. I just did the best I could, and I have a family to consider, and I don't wish to jeopardize their safety, in another demonstration of my compassion."

"It's you who are the greater fool, I'm afraid." Bill shook his head somberly. "Compassion is not limited to being generous and kind to those we hold dear, for that is far too simple, and anyone can do it, meaning there is nothing special about it. No, true compassion entails empathy. It involves imagining that you are somebody else, and it means realizing that everybody on this planet is as complex as oneself, and therefore, is capable of the same depth of emotions as oneself, and that every being is loved by somebody."

Again, he nodded at the street outside, teeming with the destitute. "All those humans out there are feeling exactly as I would feel in that situation, and that knowledge pierces me everyday, as does the recognition that each one of those people out there have others standing invisible in the shadows― family, friends, romancers― who are suffering in their absence. It is a cross that I bear, and I would do anything to relieve myself of it, if I could, but I can't, and so Mike, like everyone else, is trapped where he is." He locked eyes with Chris. "If I ever can liberate those in Azkaban, I'll get Mike out, but I make no promises."

"If you refuse to save Mike, then we have nothing more to discuss." Temperamentally, Chris gained his feet, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door so vehemently behind him that it trembled.

Somewhat wearied by the confrontation with his former comrade, Bill levered himself out of his seat, and left his office to start another work day at Gringotts.

On Saturday, life brightened a tad, suggesting that a minuscule amount of sunshine filtered its way into everyone's existence at some juncture, for Bill and Fleur were invited to dine at the Burrow one last time before Ginny returned to Hogwarts, something she was not gleeful about, but that she was forced to do, courtesy of another new ordinance from the Ministry that required all magical children in Britain to attend Hogwarts.

"Did you guys read the paper?" she griped to the trouble twins, Fleur, and Bill. "Snape has been made headmaster, and I'm confident that he'll be able to teach us loads of valuable information in a sweeping variety of subjects ranging from hair care to how to be a loyal and valiant solider. I definitely must applaud the Ministry on the aptness of its selection. Then, of course, Alecto and Amycus Carrow are magnificent additions to the staff, despite the fact that Hagrid's half-brother Grawp has a better grasp of the nuances of English grammar than they do."

"Well, you can't expect trolls to be quite as articulate as giants, sis," George informed her sagely, devouring his mother's cooking with incredible enthusiasm.

"Yeah, it's like comparing apples to oranges," contributed his twin, "so, anyhow, are you keeping the D.A. going?"

"Obviously." Ginny wrinkled her nose at the dreadful duo as though they were dung attached permanently to the soles of her shoes. "Luna, Neville, and I have already agreed on that, and we've hatched some plans about how to organize resistance, and keep morale up to continue with the battle against darkness at the school, although we'll miss the leadership Harry and Hermione provided, but I suppose they can't help that they've got to go on this quest that will somehow facilitate You-Know-Who's downfall."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Fred snickered. "It's awesome to hear that one of our precious little siblings is following in our footsteps, and creating confusion wherever she goes. Ron is such a disappointment in that regard."

"Tell me about it." George bobbed his head up and down fervently. "The only time Ron sparks mayhem is when he topples over his own gigantic, ungainly feet."

"Anyway, we'll be doing our own tiny part in the struggles against You-Know-Who and his cronies by contributing regularly to Lee Jordan's new illegal radio station, _Potterwatch_." As he made this pronouncement, George winked merrily about at the assembly. "If you'd care to hear some real news, fiddle with your dials at around about seven o'clock in the evening, and remember that the password is currently Albus Dumbledeore."

"The password will change," George noted with a stern-mock professor tone, "so mind you keep up, or you'll fall behind for good."

"We'll be certain to do that," promised Bill, grinning, as Fleur smiled, as well.

True to his word, the next evening at seven, Bill and his wife were listening to _Potterwatch_, and, although it was refreshing and exhilarating to defy the Ministry and the Death Eaters by taking their news from an unauthorized source, and, although it was wonderful to finally hear the truth of what was occurring in the wider world, it was depressing to discover just how awful the truth was. Muggle killing was officially sanctioned. More Muggle-Borns were being shipped to Azkaban daily. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been besieged by a knot of Death Eaters, because he had employed You-Know-Who's name, and there was now a Trace on it, which meant that he had to run from the law now.

The only positive news was that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to sneak into the Ministry of Magic, and free about twenty Muggle-Borns who otherwise would have gone to the dementors, but now were able to flee and save themselves. Better yet, by the sound of it, the three of them were still alive and carrying on with their clandestine journey. Still, when _Potterwatch _ended, Bill found he could not restrain from asking in one huge breath the questions that had been plaguing him recently, "Do you ever wonder what we do it for, Fleur? What if there is no point to our suffering? What if there is no heaven to hear or answer our prayers?"

"If zere is no heaven," Fleur returned, sipping at her champagne, "zen why do we 'unger for more zan zis planet has got to offer us? Why do we thirst for more peace and justice?"

"To taunt us like a ton of donkeys strung about by one measly, unattainable carrot," he mumbled.

"Donkeys are moved along for a purpose, and, if what you claim is accurate, zen we are being manipulated with a purpose, too," she pointed out. Gesturing for him to follow her, she rose, and went over to the window, where she gazed meditatively out at the starry, indifferent night sky, and he joined her, resting his head on her shoulder, less than a handful of seconds later. "Look. What do you see out zere?"

"A cold, uncaring universe that proves my thesis more eloquently than I ever could, my love," he replied. "It shows that everything is dark, and that we are born, we suffer, and we perish, and that is all― there is no plan, no purpose, no 'goodness,' and we're just deluding ourselves, seeking hope that is not present. There is nothing but black space, and black holes, and the universe does not give a damn whether we live or die. Heck, it doesn't care if our sun burns out now, and our whole solar system ceases to be just like that."

"Perhaps you're right, zen." Fleur shrugged in the infuriating fashion she had of removing all the triumph from emerging the victor from a debate. "However, I ask you zen, what difference does that make?"

"Huh?"

"Zere is drakenss everywhere, oui, and a few stars― a sprinkling of dots of light. If zere is no plan, no fate, no destiny, no divine providence, zen what is left? Only our choices, Monsieur, and I rather like it zat way." Her piercing eyes riveted on him, pining him to the floor as only she could. "You, like ze rest of us, Bill, can choose to emit light or darkness. You can be a candle, or the night, but you must pick."

"I'll be a star, of course," he decided instantly, kissing her shoulder.

"Good, zen you 'ave already defeated the dark, non?"

"What?" Puzzled, he halted mid-kiss.

"Zere is a seditious rumor circulating Gringotts that you 'ave a brain in your 'ead, but I suspect zat it is a lie," she snorted.

"I just can't think in the splendor of your presence. Around others, I'm a frightful know-it-all, actually."

"You are impossible," she chuckled. Regaining her seriousness, she added, "You must remember zat just by shining every star vanquishes the night, and it is in the darkest night zat the stars shine most vibrantly."

"But even stars get tired and flicker out," he reminded her.

"And zeir materials are used to create new stars. Everything that dies someday comes back."

"You win." Smiling, Bill held up his hands in surrender. "So, I guess all of us are stars, and Harry's the North Star in your version of the universe."

"Why not?" she agreed, pivoting abruptly, and bringing her lips to his, and everything was right for a moment in Bill's universe.


	67. Chapter 67

With a Ministry finally under You-Know-Who's domination, if not in name than indisputably in deed, the situation at Hogwarts, Bill discovered through Ginny's letters, was even worse than it had been in Umbridge's regime

Little Warriors

With a Ministry finally under You-Know-Who's domination, if not in name than indisputably in deed, the situation at Hogwarts, Bill discovered through Ginny's letters, was even worse than it had been in Umbridge's regime. Indeed, in an owl he had received from her in late October, she wrote:

**Dear Bill,**

**I apologize that it has taken me so long to send you a note, but it is challenging to mail a letter without it being intercepted by Death Eaters nowadays. In fact, if you don't want your owl read by several of You-Know-Who's lackeys prior to its being read by the actual intended recipient, you have to creep up to the Owlery at the dead of night when the Carrows, who are not the brightest beings on the planet by several decimal places, and the slimy, smelly git that some more tolerant people would refer to as Severus Snape are all snoozing. Of course, other professors are "patrolling" the corridors, but not like they used to do. Even McGonagall has taken to looking the other way when someone from the D.A. breaks a rule, and she has dropped valuable tips about spells that might happen to be of assistance to pranksters in her classes on more than one occasion. **

**However, I confess that my evenings have been filled with other midnight wanderings. Neville, Luna, and I have been organizing various members of the D.A. to sneak out of our dormitories at night, and retaliate against the Death Eaters who had the nerve to invade our school. We're showing them that we're not about to surrender, and that if they want to defeat us, there'll be a ton of their blood shed in the process, in addition to ours. **

**How are we doing that with our limited magical education, you ask? Well, we creep out at night, and put graffiti in prominent places along the walls, proclaiming messages such as, "Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting," and stuff like that. I admit that there have been a handful of close shaves with that. For example, just two nights ago, McGonagall spotted me painting the walls in the Transfiguration Wing, but she just spun on her heel, and acted as though she hadn't. I reckon she did not wish to have me put in detention, because detention is literally torture now. **

**During Defense Against the Dark Arts, which is taught by Amycus Carrow (a fact that is doubly ironic, since, as a Death Eater, he shouldn't be instructing people in defensive magic, and, as a person with an IQ only slightly above absolute zero, he should not be teaching anyone even if he's one of the last two people on earth), students are forced to perform the Cruciatus Curse upon those who have earned detention for standing up for their convictions. However, nobody, except a few Slytherin nutcases, actually tries to hurt their peers, even though this sometimes lands them in detention, as well. Despite their best efforts to divide and conquer us, then, we're more united than ever, and, because we are not afraid, despite their attempts to intimidate us, we shall eventually emerge from the struggle triumphant, and better, not worse, for the wear. **

**Besides from the Cruciatus Curse, the Carrows have taken to chaining us up in the dungeons, just like nobles used to do with prisoners in the Dark Ages, but we usually can rescue our fellows before they are really injured. The Carrows should have realized by now that we'll never abandon each other, regardless of what they do to us, and that we'll always be there to save one another. **

**Anyway, aside from spraying propaganda on the walls, and helping our peers who have received detention, we also annoy the heck out of Amycus and Alecto by interjecting with impertinent inquiries in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies, which is now mandatory for all pupils, so everyone can hear about how stupid, evil, and oppressing Muggles are. (Incidentally, if you replace the word "Muggles" with "Death Eaters" the last clause of that sentence becomes accurate. I love word games, don't you?) Unfortunately, such a tactic occasionally backfires, and causes a teenager to gain some new scars to utilize as a conversation starter in the future. For instance, Neville got a line of scars down his right cheek, he explained to me, last week for asking Alecto how much Muggle blood she and her sibling have got flowing in their veins. I told him that it was a foolish question, because everyone can see plainly that they are pure-blooded apes. **

**So, anyhow, I just wanted you to know that I'm doing fine, even if I do have a handful of new scars, and that the student body of Hogwarts is doing its part to save everyone from You-Know-Who and his cronies. Also, by the way, Neville, Luna, and I are plotting our biggest scheme yet: We are going to break into Snape's office, and steal back Godric Gryffindor's sword― the one Harry got in the Chamber of Secrets in his second year. After all, craven, slimy, and scumy Slytherin serpents don't deserve noble, loyal, and brave Gryffindor lion belongings. I'd better go, so I can mail this letter tonight. **

**Love from your lioness, **

**Ginny**

When he finished reading this epistle, Bill shook his head, and mumbled through his mouthful of breakfast toast, "Apparently, Ron's not the only one who's swimming with the sharks instead if the dolphins."

"I 'ope, for your sake, Meester, zat you were not muttering about my cooking." Fleur's eyes contracted as she spread blueberry jam over her own toast. It seemed that she had not heard his words, just his tone.

"Well, aren't we over-sensitive and paranoid this morning," he chuckled. Sobering, he clarified, "For your information, I was actually commenting that Ginny, like Ron, is determined to put herself in danger. By the sound of her letter, she, Neville, and that Luna girl have taken to leading the guerilla war against Snape and that Carrows at Hogwarts."

"It must be genetic."

"What― courage, lunacy, or sheer stupidity?" he arched his eyebrows at her.

"All zree," she replied with a straight face.

"You can't talk until you have figured out how to pronounce your 'th' properly," he educated her, as serious as she was. He wolfed down his last slab of toast, and began to search for a quill and parchment to respond to his sister with, praying to God to keep her safe in her future escapades.

Whatever his prayer was, it wasn't answered, or, at any rate, it wasn't answered in any way he had anticipated, as Bill learned in Ginny's next update on the situation at Hogwarts:

**Dear Bill, **

**To be blunt, our great prank did not go nearly as well as we had hoped, not by a long shot. That is, Luna, Neville, and I were caught when attempting to take back the sword by Snape, and he placed us in detention for an entire week. Luckily, though, the detentions were not as awful as the three of us had initially feared, for it transpired that Snape was idiotic enough to send us to Hagrid's every evening for a week to serve our detention, because apparently he has neglected to notice that Hagrid is our buddy. **

**Therefore, although Snape forced Hagrid to drag us into the Forbidden Forest every night, he just took us to visit Grawp for awhile. If you're interested, Grawp is actually far more articulate than the Carrows now, and he can even tie his shoes and stuff. Frankly, it is impressive what Hagrid has done with his half-brother. **

**Well, I'd better get going as I have to finish a Transfiguration essay prior to sneaking out for seditious purposes tonight, and I would hate to force McGonagall to hand me a detention for failing to hand in my homework, since, to give her credit where credit is due, she has been striving to avoid giving detentions to her pupils this year, because she sees what the Carrows are doing, and despises it. I hope you and everyone is safe, or as safe as anyone can be in this nation these days.**

**Love always from your tigress, **

**Ginny**

**P.S. ― I believe that Snape is sending the sword off somewhere for safekeeping, since he doesn't want to risk it being stolen by a successful burglary. **

Barely a day later, Bill would uncover where exactly Snape had shipped Gryffindor's sword for safekeeping when he strode by Griphook in Level J12 of Gringotts, and saw him bearing what seemed to be a goblin-wrought sword with rubies that glittered even in the dark tunnels encrusted along its handle. "Is that Gryffindor's sword, then?" he inquired in Gobbledegook of the goblin as he passed. "Is Snape sending it here?"

"How did you know it was Gryffindor's sword?' demanded Griphook in his own tongue.

"My little sister Ginny wrote to me that she and two of her comrades slipped into the headmaster's study, and attempted to steal the weapon," Bill responded, "but they were caught and punished― severely. Anyway, my sister told me that Snape was planning on hiding it elsewhere for security purposes, so, when I spotted you with that sword, I supposed that it was Gryffindor's."

"That's what you're supposed to think," growled Griphook, still in his native language, "and it's certainly what Severus Snape believes, and who am I to question an esteemed Hogwarts headmaster?"

"What do you mean?" Bill frowned, bemused by this remark.

"Obviously, there are things that even intelligent members of your egotistical species can't recognize," the other snorted, rolling his eyes.

"I still don't follow you, I'm afraid." Bill shook his head, making a mental note to increase the quantity of his morning wake-up coffee, because clearly his brain was not functioning at its optimal level as of yet, although it was nearly nine in the morning.

"What a surprise! Good thing I don't have a heart, or else I would've risked suffering a heart attack at such a revelation," sneered Griphook. Ignoring the human's glare, he went on, "Since you've proven to be a profitable and less bigoted member of your race, I will tell you that this sword was not crafted by goblin hands."

"So it's not Gryffindor's, in that case," Bill mumbled, staring off into space in shock at this news. "Merlin, then my sister and her friends risked everything for nothing."

"Of course they did," Griphook emitted an unpleasant expression of mirth that sounded horribly like gravel banging about in a steel pail, "as humans, even you, always do foolish things like that, and us goblins will never comprehend such illogical and unprofitable antics."

Bill chose to ignore this jibe at his species, he was still recovering from because the sword revelation, but he regained his wits enough to holler after the goblin's retreating back. "Did you inform anyone else of this?"

"You should be honored that you are the first human to hear this," Griphook shouted in response. "Moreover, chances are, nobody else at this bank will hear of it, as I intend to leave here after I complete locking this up, because I can't stand the Ministry's continual attempts to seize control of Gringotts, even though it is supposed to be managed by my race, as it has always been."

For a moment, Bill examined the goblin closely. If he had been a fellow human, he would have wished Griphook good luck, but since he was a goblin, all Bill could do was wave, and say, "To work. I wish you a profitable and efficient enterprise."

"To work," echoed Griphook, bustling off.

It was either insanely late in the night, or distressingly early in the morning on a day in mid-December, when there was a resounding crash right outside Shell Cottage that prompted Bill and his wife to shoot bolt upright in bed, all drowsiness evaporating from them, because that was currently a luxury they could not afford to pay for with their lives in the middle of this war. Less than forty seconds after he was awakened by the crash, Bill shoved himself out of bed, snatched his wand from the nightstand, and darted downstairs, Fleur racing in his wake, her own wand drawn.

"Who's there?" he called through the door, his wand focused on it, so that he was poised to greet any intruders with a deft hex.

"Ron." A strained voice sounded through the wood.

"What did Fred and George transform your teddy bear into when you were three, then?" he demanded, edging closer to the entrance.

"Those imbeciles turned it into a sp-spider." A whine that was undeniably Ron's reached Bill's ears. "Damn it, Bill, just let me in already."

Obediently, now that he was confident that it was truly his brother waiting for admittance on the opposite threshold, Bill swung open the door, and, a second later, he had almost reflexively slammed it shut again, because what resembled an utter stranger was gazing back at him. His visitor was emaciated, his arm was in a sling, and...he had no fingernails, which meant that he was dripping blood all over Bill's doorstep, something he did not appreciate very much at all.

"Ron?" Bill eyed the young, battered male before him dubiously.

"Yeah, who do you think it is?" Ron grimaced in pain, suggesting that his lack of fingernails was a new, and agonizing, condition. "The Tooth Fairian Queen, or Santa Claus?"

"The Easter Bunny, actually, running behind the schedule as usual. Come in." Moving sideways, Bill gestured for his sibling to enter his home, and, not needing to be instructed to do so twice, the younger man practically leapt inside, as though the dreadful duo have just scorched his trousers. Once Ron had stepped into the house and shut the door after him, Bill added, "Allow me to fix those nails for you. You look like you have literally just been through a mill."

With a casual flick of his wand, he had Ron's fingernails mend themselves in the time it took to wink, and, blinking in astonishment at the speed of the healing, Ron muttered, "Thanks, mate."

Before Bill could assure him that it had been nothing, Ron's eyes alighted upon the bowl of fruit resting on the coffee table, and he charged over to it with a delighted cry of "Food!" With that, he bit into an apple, while he sank into the sofa.

"Ron, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" Deciding to operate under the assumption that it was about midnight, Bill plopped onto the sofa beside the addressed.

"You promised that I could come to your house if I needed to!" Ron established, more than a little defensively.

"I did, and I meant it," the older Weasley reassured him, gingerly patting the arm that wasn't wrapped in a make-do sling. "You're welcome to remain here as long as you need to, but I'm just curious as to where the others are. Did you split up for the quest, or something?"

"I guess you could put it that way—sure, we split up." As he stated this, a somewhat tortured expression clouded Ron's face while he consumed the last of his apple, tossed it into the garbage bin with his unharmed wrist, and grabbed a peach from the bowl, which he ate with gusto, keeping his eyes riveted on the fruit, rather than the man next to him.

"Did you guys argue?" Bill prodded, detecting a peculiar nuance in his brother's tone and words.

"Right in one. Pick a prize from the box, because you're our first Grand Winner of the day." If it was possible, Ron slumped further into the cushions.

"Are you telling me that you ditched your best friends, then?" pressed Bill, who was unable to prevent the scorn from intruding upon his voice. Maybe he was biased, because he still felt the knives of Chris' and Mike's betrayals in his heart, and he recognized that the pain, the void, caused by their absences would never heal, or be filled entirely. The fact was, a ripped heart could be repaired, yes, but the scars would always endure.

"Yes, genius, that's what I'm telling you. Ring the bells, I think we've got another Merlin on our hands," Ron snapped, a flush rising on his cheeks as his ears and neck became crimson. "However, you needn't worry about them, because they'll be fine without me!"

"They'll be fine without you?" Bill couldn't restrain himself from shooting his sibling a withering look. "They're two kids on a mission to defeat the most powerfully evil wizard this world has ever known, and you figure that they don't require all the assistance they can get? You've determined, have you, that they'll be fine without you when they were depending upon you to stick with them until the bitter end, through thick and through thin?"

Realizing that he was granting his wrath too much freedom, he chewed his lower lip for a few seconds, mastering his tongue. Finally, when he was positive that he was in control, he shook his head, and observed coolly, "Abandoning your friends is not very impressive, if you ask me, Ron."

For split second, Ron's face fell at his disapproval before it transfigured itself once more into a mask of fury. "Well, I didn't ask for your opinion, so do me a favor, and keep it to yourself!" His eyes blazing, he threw the pit of the peach into the trash, and snatched a plum from the dish. Taking an irate bite, he resumed, sending flecks of fruit and saliva in every direction, "Anyway, you're as wrong as you could be, because they don't need me in the slightest, since I'm just extra baggage, as I'm just a useless, clumsy, stupid, and pathetically untalented in every field of magic. It's probably worth paying for to watch me struggle to keep up with those two, as it would make a brilliant comedy, I imagine!"

Abruptly, Bill felt most of his rage sail out of him, to be replaced by pity. He felt sorry for his youngest brother: always wearing hand-me-downs, never having any new toys, being the last son of a woman who by then only desired a daughter, outshone by all this older brothers, and always in the shadow of his best mate, the famous Harry Potter. It was a heavy cross for any adolescent to bear, and it was compounded by a mission few would be able to handle at the age of seventeen.

Yet, even as sympathy flooded him, Bill had no notion what to say to Ron, and he was eternally grateful to his wife when she interjected, "Ron, I am going to go into ze kitchen, and throw you togezzer a 'am and cheese sandwich, because eating all zat fruit is bad for your digestion."

"Hurray!" As Fleur hastened out of the living room, and into the kitchen, Ron held up his working arm in a parody of jubilation. "I can't believe that I'm going to consume a balanced meal after weeks of eating whatever revolting substances Hermione can scavenge."

Glaring at his comrade, he ranted on, "You see, that's what I had to contend with—disgusting food when we were lucky enough to get it! Small, bony fish, and berries were considered delicacies, and my arm and my ribs were killing me the whole time, because I was Splinched when we Disapparated from the Ministry, and we were making zero progress, as Harry had no clue where we should go, or what we should do. Then, I heard about Ginny—Snape sent her into the Forbidden Forest, and all Harry could say was that he had been through worse, well, of course he has, because he's perfect. It wouldn't surprise me if he turns out to be the Son of God! But she's not, and she's my sister, and I don't want her dead!" Here he paused to permit massive gusts of oxygen into his lungs, and to expel carbon-dioxide before he plunged inexorably onward, "To cap it all off, after Harry and I argued, and I decided that I'd leave, because he's a git, Hermione chose to stay with him, because she loves him more than she loves me."

"I'm sure that's not the case," Bill protested, convinced that Hermione and Harry had as much probability of dating as Ron and Ginny did. Still, of course Hermione would decide to stay with Harry, because he needed her more at the moment. One day, his little brother would learn that there were different types of love out there. Planning to introduce this novel concept to his sibling, he continued, "Hermione—"

"Obviously, she cares about him more," interrupted Ron, overriding him without a thought, "and why shouldn't she? After all, Harry's the Boy Who Lived and the Chosen One, isn't he, and she's the best, the cleverest witch in the year, so they're just about equals, aren't they? As for me, what am I? Never mind, don't bother guessing. I'll give you the answer. The third wheel on the bicycle, that's me. The weakest Weasley: the one who isn't smart like you or Percy, the one who isn't good with animals or magnificent at Quidditch like Charlie, the one who isn't a laugh a minute and the life of every party like the twins, and the one who isn't a girl like Ginny, that's me, as well. The boy who is such a half-wit that he studied for his O.W.L's and all he received was seven of them, that's me, too..."

"Hush," Bill ordered firmly, holding up a palm to cease the torrent of self-recriminations. "You are not stupid. You were made a prefect, weren't you?"

"Please, I'm not dumb enough to believe that was an honor, or an indication that I have a brain," scoffed Ron. "I'm well aware that the only reason I was made a prefect was because Dumbledore couldn't make Harry one. As always, I was second rate."

"You made the Quidditch team," Bill tried again.

"Only because my brothers were skilled at the sport, and Angelina thought talent on the pitch is genetic, and Harry did not want to kick me off the team when he was Captain, so that hardly counts."

"That doesn't matter," Bill informed him seriously, as Fleur returned, and set a platter with a ham and cheese sandwich on the table in front of Ron, who nodded his head gratefully at her, before gobbling it down with relish. "Nobody is like you, and you're a very special kid, even if you are hell-bent on selling yourself short. You're a brilliant chess player, and you are funny in your own way. Besides, as Dumbledore would insist, if he were present and alive today, it matters not what natural talent and raw abilities a person possess, but rather how he decides to employ them. Think, Ron—"

"That's not exactly my strong suit," the addressed grumbled.

"Well, give it a try, as there's a first time for everything," grinned Bill. His smile receding, he continued, "Consider You-Know-Who for a moment. Dumbledore has always declared that he was the brightest pupil Hogwarts has ever seen, and You-Know-Who is probably one of the most powerful wizards that the world has known, and look what he's done with himself. Whereas, you, on the other hand, don't have his brains or his power, but you're a good person, and you'll grow up to be a good man."

"I don't feel like an awesome person right now," Ron confessed through a mouthful of food. "I'm a traitor, a Judas Iscarat."

Biting his lower lip thoughtfully, the senior Weasley hedged, "I won't deny that you turned your back on your friends, and that is reprehensible, but everyone sins sometimes. The important thing is to recognize that you have done so, seek forgiveness from those you have wronged, and to make amends afterwards. Remember, Judas wasn't the only disciple that betrayed Jesus."

"He wasn't?"

"Nope, remember at the Last Supper when Jesus announced that one of the thirteen assembled would betray him, Peter declared that he would never do such a thing, but Jesus prophesized that he would betray him three times before the cock crowed. Unfortunately, Jesus was correct, and Peter thrice denied that he had been a disciple of Jesus by the time the cock crowed at dawn. Almost instantly, though, Peter realized that he had behaved wrongly, and he knelt, repented, and begged for God's forgiveness, which was bestowed upon him, and he went on to become the rock on which the whole Church was founded—quite an honor."

"Do you reckon that Harry would ever forgive me?" whispered Ron.

This time, it was Fleur who replied. Leaning forward, she grabbed a fragile glass cup from the table, and held it up for Ron's inspection. "Do you see zis cup?" she inquired.

"Yes." Barely sparing it a glance, Ron offered an impatient nod of assent. "It's beautiful."

"It is zat," Fleur noted serenely, ignoring his brusqueness, and raising the vessel so that it shone brightly in the candlelight. It was indeed lovely: the material was so thin that it was nearly translucent, the color a blue so pale it was almost the pristine white of an angel's gown, and the shape simple and unpretentious, having neither a handle, nor a curved rim. "Also, it 'appens to be very delicate. It was given to me by an old man I knew back 'ome in France who made it for me as a going-away gift when I departed for England. 'E lived on an island all alone a kilometer or so at sea, and I believe zat 'e is one of ze best glassworkers in ze world, and when 'e gave zis to me, I swore zat I would never use it. However, 'e commanded zat I do so, and 'e instructed me to be careful with it, because it was indeed valuable, yet he also told me zat if someone was careless, or some ozzer accident occurred, I should see 'im, because 'e could mend it. 'E could do so, because 'e 'ad an even finer art zan merely crafting ze vessels. 'E could remake ze shattered ones, and in zat was 'is most sublime creation, since 'e could take ze pieces of something gorgeous zat 'ad been smashed, and rebuid it into something even more beautiful, as you would see ze seams of the break, but ze piece would still be flawless, and, because it 'ad been cracked once, it would become infinitely more valuable zan before."

For several quiet moments, Ron gazed at the glass as though had never laid eyes on one before, absorbing the lesson contained in the parable. When he was confident that his sibling has registered the significance of Fleur's words, Bill pushed himself off the sofa, remarking, "The room next to ours is all made up, if you want to stay there. Now, we all should get back to bed, or else we'll never wake up in the morning, and Fleur and I will get fired, and then none of us will have a place to reside."

"You're right." Yawning, Ron got to his feet along with the other two.

As they all trudged upstairs, Bill added to his brother, "Oh, and how did you lose those fingernails?"

"I lost them when I Disapparated."

"I thought you had that figured out by now."

"I do, as long as I'm not under pressure," shrugged Ron, "but there were these crazy wizards who besieged me, and they thought I was a Muggle-Born, and I only just managed to escape them by Disapprating, although I Splinched myself in the process."

"Those were Snatchers," Bill educated him grimly. "They exist to capture Muggle-Borns on the run. I suspect that you bumped into a dim-witted bunch, but some of them can be really dangerous." Reaching out, he rumpled his little brother's hair. "I'm glad you're alive."

"You only want me alive so you can rumple my hair," smiled Ron wryly.

"I still want you alive, though." As they arrived outside the bedroom next to the master one, Bill pointed Ron inside it. "Get to bed now. Good night, or morning, or whatever it is now."

"Morning, probably," responded Ron, disappearing into his bedroom.


	68. Chapter 68

Gone Again

Much too soon for his fancy, Bill had to wake up. Cursing his brother for disturbing his precious little sleep time in a language that bore a faint resemblance to English, he rolled out of bed, pulled out a pair of robes from the dresser, barely checking to ascertain that they did indeed match, and stumbled, like a drunkard, into the bathroom, where he fumbled, brain still in dreamland, with the faucet. When he had finished running mindlessly through the motions of bathing and dressing, he walked downstairs, somewhat more awake due to the scalding heat of the shower he had just taken in an effort to get his brain switched on. Still, the shower had been a temporary solution…what he really needed was a coffee, a black one, and right away, before his mind gave out on him, and he fell into a snooze on the stairwell.

Fortunately, he did indeed make it downstairs, and into the kitchen, where Fleur was cooking a batch of scrambled eggs, and Ron was nowhere in sight, meaning that he was still resting, something that did not decrease Bill's current enmity toward him for depriving him of his blessed sleep. As his wife dumped the eggs onto two platters, Bill crossed over to the coffee maker, and poured himself as much of the substance as his regrettably small mug could contain.

Sipping his coffee, even though it burned his tongue a little, Bill seated himself at the table in front of a serving of eggs. Fleur, however, did not join him, but, rather, gazed upstairs in the direction of Ron's bedroom with a frown. "Your brozzer's not up yet."

"Nope," Bill grumped. "Not everyone has to get up in the morning to slave away for the most ungrateful species in the world, and my brother is one of those privileged few, and, of course, he has no notion of how lucky he is in that regard, as usual."

"Should I wake 'im?" she asked, her forehead furrowing. "'E will miss breakfast ozzerwise."

"He can make his own breakfast, or lunch, depending upon when the lazy bum awakens, and what meal type he prefers." Apparently, Bill discovered to his own surprise, he did not hate his sibling enough to want to wake him up after all he had been through last night. To illustrate his contention, he waved an expansive hand about the kitchen. "We've got all sorts of cereals and bread to make toast for breakfast, and we've got meats and cheeses, as well as peanut butter and jam for sandwiches. What more could a kid who has been feasting upon berries and mushrooms desire? Besides, even Ron, who is not always the sharpest tool in the shed, can figure out how to make toast, pour a bowl of cereal, or throw together a sandwich. It's not alchemy, after all."

"I guess you're right," agreed Fleur, smiling slightly.

"Of course I'm right." Bill would have grinned if he hadn't been so blasted exhausted. "When have I ever been wrong?"

"Too many times to count," she educated him dryly.

"Some people flatter those they love," he complained, shoving eggs into his mouth.

"Zat's lovely and fascinating, I assure you, but I'm not one of zem."

"That's obvious." Scowling, he gestured at the seat across from him. "Do sit down and eat already, or your scrambled eggs will get cold, and nothing is worse than cold eggs― they feel like rubbery gunk."

As she plopped into the chair across from him, and began to consume her own breakfast, she inquired angelically, "Is nothing really worse zan cold eggs?"

"That's what Monsieur Louis says, and I believe him, because he knows loads more about the culinary arts than I do." Bill shrugged, as he neared the end of his meal.

"So, war and death are better zan cold eggs, is zat what you are claiming?" she pressed, a mocking glint in her eyes.

"It's way too early in the morning for a verbal sparring match." He shook his head, wrinkling his nose at her. "You always choose to argue with me when I'm tired, and my mind is not working."

"Answer ze question," she ordered, arching her eyebrows testily. "Are cold eggs really worse zan war and death?"

"All right, then, if it will get you off my back, yes, war and death, and even bad hair days pale next to the horror that is cold eggs," he informed her with a straight face, as he placed his last forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, and ten minutes later, they were Disapparating to the bank together.

When they returned home from work that evening, and they entered the living room, Bill blinked in astonishment, and then wondered if it was possible that Fleur had inherited a house-elf recently, and neglected to mention it to him. The floor had been cleaned so thoroughly that not a speck of dirt could be found on the carpet, the coffee tables, and other wooden furniture had been dusted and polished so that they sparkled with their own light in the fitful illumination provided by the candles and the fire, and the bookshelf had been organized in alphabetical order by author. Then, he recollected that Ron was visiting, but there was no way this could be his work, as his little brother loathed housework almost as much as he hated You-Know-Who.

"Ron!" he called hesitantly up the steps.

There was the sound of a door swinging ajar upstairs, and, a few seconds later, a redhead poked over the railing at them. "Oh, Bill, and Fleur, you're home," remarked Ron, clattering down the steps to greet them.

"Did you do this?" Bill asked, waving a hand about the living room.

"Yeah, yeah, I did." Ron seemed discomfited, as though nervous that Bill might not approve of his actions. "Sorry, I was kind of bored, you know, and I didn't know what to do with myself, so I thought that I might be able to help…"

"Don't apologize." Bill rolled his eyes. "The furniture needed polishing, and the books needed reorganizing, but how on earth did you do this so fast?"

"I had five hours." Ron lifted his good arm in what might have been a shrug. "Actually, it's amazing what I can accomplish in that time frame when I put my mind to it."

"You slept until one?" demanded Bill, more than a tad jealous.

"Twelve-thirty, really, but I had to make myself breakfast," Ron responded.

"You slept well, in that case?"

"No." The younger Weasley's face clouded. "I couldn't fall asleep until four o'clock. My conscience wouldn't give me enough peace to rest."

"Oh." Feeling somewhat awkward, Bill cast about for some manner by which to change the topic, and his eyes lit upon his brother's sling. "Gosh, Ron, we've got to do something about your arm. For Merlin's sake, why didn't you say anything?" Before Ron could reply, he pointed upstairs, and commanded, "Come on. Let's see if we have some Skele-Grow for you upstairs."

Obediently, Ron trailed behind him up to the hallway bathroom, where Bill rummaged about in the medicine cabinet behind the sink for five minutes until he finally uncovered a battered box of Skele-Grow. After Ron had swallowed a teaspoon of it, something that took longer than necessary, as he spat out the first two doses, because it had stung his mouth and throat too much, the pair of them returned downstairs, and went into the kitchen with Fleur, who was concocting cheese fondue for their supper.

"Can I assist you?" Ron wanted to know, a hopeful edge to his tone, as they entered. "I hate being useless."

"You're more useful zan he is, zen," commented Fleur, nodding her head in Bill's direction to show whom she was referring to. "'E never offers to cook for me."

"That's because I'm the worst chef on the planet, and I don't wish you to perish of food poisoning yet, my dear," Bill retorted, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Nonsense," his spouse scoffed. "You were a bachelor for many years, and I'm sure in zat amount of time, you figured out 'ow to bake some meals."

"I've already told you that my meals were always prepared by Louis," he reminded her, grinning. "Of course, I do know how to do one or two meals, I suppose. For instance, I can cook spaghetti, since Charlie and I once had to figure out how to cook that when we were babysitting and had to feed the others, and I can make sugar cookies, and cakes from mixes, but I'm nowhere near as superb a chef as you are. Oh, and I can throw together a decent salad."

"Great, zen do so now," Fleur instructed him, jabbing a finger at the refrigerator. As her husband obediently strode over to it, and began withdrawing various vegetables for a salad, she added to Ron, "You can cut up ze garlic, and zen put it on ze bread with some butter and cheese."

Before he started chopping up the carrots and cucumbers for the salad, Bill turned on the radio, playing with the dial for a bit before he hit the right password for _Potterwatch_, and Lee Jordan's voice was soon flooding the kitchen, describing how more people had been shipped off to Azkaban, and more Muggles had been killed.

When the broadcast had ended, leaving them all breathless, Ron whispered, as he laid the table for supper, "What was that?"

"_Potterwatch_," answered Bill, putting the salad in the center of the table alongside the slightly burnt loaf of garlic bread his younger sibling had made. "It's a radio show that Fred, George, and Lee began to disseminate the truth of what's happening, although now _The Quibbler_ is doing an admirable job of reporting the war honestly. I have to admit that it is far more accurate than the _Daily Prophet_ is these days, and I'm almost considering paying for a subscription, but I'm afraid that it will go downhill again, and I'll be stuck reading rot about nargles and Crumple-Horned Snorckacks."

"You still subscribe to the _Daily Prophet_?" Ron scowled at the name of the paper as though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, as they all slipped into their seats, and Fleur began to dish out mounds of cheese fondue to the three of them. "Why bother when it is all mound of lies?"

"I only buy it for the comics," chuckled Bill.

"They only are in the Sunday edition," Ron pointed out through a mouthful of cheese fondue. Whirling about to face Fleur, he complimented her, "Wow, this is the best thing I've ever tasted."

"The front page shows up in ever edition, and how they can spin everything that's going on into a wonderful gift from God to all of wizard-kind is always a laugh." Bill could not contain his smile at the way his little brother was gorging himself.

"Thank you," Fleur beamed, as well. "I'm glad you zat you enjoy my cooking."

For a couple of moments, silence settled between them all, as they ate their dinners, then Bill focused on his brother. "Ron, you know you're welcome here as long as you need to stay, but, um, maybe you should think about going back to Harry and Hermione sometime soon."

"I can't go back to them," Ron mumbled, slumping in his chair.

"We discussed this last night," Bill stated firmly. "You have to go back to them, because they need your assistance. All you have to do is apologize to them, and promise that you will never do anything like it again. They'll forgive you if you come back to them humbly, and willing to work with them again."

"I would go back if I could." Ron's fork toyed with his meal, and Bill suspected that the younger Weasley had determined that it was safer to address the dish below him, rather than the man across from him. "I can't, though, because we Disapparated every morning, and I don't know where they would have gone."

"They might have waited for you to come back," suggested Bill. "Maybe they are still where you left them? They have to know that you wouldn't abandon them."

"Even if they had remained where they were, I still would have no clue where to find them, as I got lost when I fled from them, which is how I came to be attacked by the Snatchers."

"Oh." Bill could not invent any route out of this particular dilemma, but he did not want to distress his brother further by declaring as much aloud. In the end, he settled for, "Well, I'm sure you'll find a path back to them eventually. After all, where there is a will, there is a way."

However, Ron did not find a way back to Harry and Hermione anytime soon, although, on a completely selfish level, Bill was convinced that this was not entirely a terrible occurrence, as he spent his days cleaning Shell Cottage, and putting up the Christmas decorations, including the Christmas Tree, but another downside of Ron's presence at their abode revealed itself five days before Christmas, when Bill had just about finished with his Christmas shopping, when Molly Weasley sent her eldest son an owl, inviting him and Fleur to spend the holiday at the Burrow.

Calculating that the twins would never let Ron, who was penitent enough, hear the end of his decision to leave his two best mates, and Ginny would probably slaughter Ron with a brutality to rival Bellatrix Lestrange or Fenrir Grayback, if she learned that he had abandoned Harry, Bill decided that his most prudent course of action was to mail his mother a note, explaining that he and Fleur were most grateful for her offer, but they would prefer to enjoy their first Christmas together.

That night, at dinner, he announced updated his spouse and Ron on his decision. "Today at work I received a letter from Mum," he began.

"What 'appened?" Fleur interjected.

"Is everyone okay?" Ron demanded anxiously.

"Nothing happened, and, as far as I know, everything is fine," he assured them. "Anyway, Mum invited Fleur and I to spend Christmas at the Burrow, but I told her that we would rather enjoy the holiday by ourselves because it was our first Christmas together after the wedding, and we had other stuff planned." He winked at his wife, who kicked his shins under the table. Glaring at her, and rubbing his injured ankle against the leg of his chair, he continued to Ron, who, being the traitor that he was, was smirking, "I thought that Fred, George, and Ginny would murder you when they found out that you had stalked off on your friends, but I'm starting to regret my generosity now."

"You can't tell them!" Ron's eyes expanded in horror at the very idea. "I'll never have another moment of peace in my very short life if you rat on me to them!"

"I was joshing with you." Thinking that revenge was sweet indeed, Bill snickered. "I won't tell them, because as I've established on far too many occasions recently, I like having you alive just so I can mess up your hair."

Rolling his eyes, Ron returned to his supper.

When Christmas Day arrived, Bill and Fleur were awakened at dawn by Errol pecking at their faces. "Errol, the hottest circle of hell is where you're going once you finally pass on," mumbled Bill, propping himself up on his pillows, and reaching out to remove two packages from the owl's beak.

As he had anticipated, one of the packages was addressed to him, and the other to his wife. When he handed Fleur her present, she tore open the wrappings immediately, and her face lit up like a blazing August sun when she glimpsed what was inside. "It's a Weasley sweater!" she exclaimed delightedly, hugging him with one arm, and clutching a cerulean sweater that matched her eyes perfectly close to her breasts with the other. "Zat was so sweet of your mother!"

"I'm happy to hear that you like it," he chortled, kissing her cheek, and then slowly moving down to her lips. "You'll be getting one every Christmas from now on, just like the rest of us, even though almost none of us are growing anymore, so we really don't need them."

"You can never 'ave too many sweaters," she observed, returning his kiss, "and I'm touched zat she likes me enough to give one to me now." Suddenly, she pulled away from him, looking guilty. "Now I feel really bad for lying to 'er."

"Just hum a few stanzas of Celestina's masterpiece, 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' under your breath, and you'll feel better," he advised her, squeezing her shoulder. "Or, if that doesn't work, remember that you did so in the service of a higher purpose, saving Ron's scrawny old neck."

"Some day you 'ave got to find a conscience." Fleur shook her head in despair at his words.

"You mean you didn't get me one for Christmas?" he inquired, feigning disappointment, as he unwrapped his own traditional Christmas present, his Weasley sweater.

"Zey were not on-sale at ze department store."

"Come on." With what seemed like a tremendous effort, approximately what was required to transport a boulder or a glacier, Bill flipped out of bed, and slipped his bathrobe on over his pajamas. "Let's go wake Ron, shall we?"

"You don't want to sleep some more, zen?"

"Nah." About to exit, he pivoted on his heel to face her once more. "There are many gifts to open, and so few hours to do so that we really must be getting a move on, unfortunately."

Snorting, Fleur followed him from their bedroom. However, when they entered Ron's room, they discovered that he was not asleep, as they had expected him to be at this hour, but rather was fiddling with his Deilluminator, switching it on and off with a considering expression etched on his features. "Merry Christmas, Ron," Bill commented. "Time to get up, and get to work opening presents, or you'll never by done by New Year's."

After Ron had thrown on his bathrobe, they all dashed downstairs into the living room, where they began to take out gifts from under the tree, and passed them around to each other. When they had unwrapped presents for about an hour, Fleur pronounced that it was about time they all put some breakfast in their bellies, and marched into the kitchen to cook them French toast, and Bill and Ron followed her into the kitchen to assist her in this endeavor in any manner they could. Once they had finished a delicious breakfast loaded with maple syrup, they all headed back into the living room, and returned to their gift opening with renewed vigor.

By two o'clock they had unwrapped every last present under the tree. With their Christmas gift obligations completed, Bill and Fleur disappeared upstairs to their bedroom to enjoy the rest of their holiday alone together, leaving Ron, who had also vanished into his bedroom once all the presents were opened, to entertain himself.

The next morning, Fleur reheated the remaining stacks of French toast, and divided them into three even piles on three separate breakfast plates. As she set them upon the table, she glanced up at the ceiling, and murmured, "Ron's not up yet. Maybe you should go and wake 'im. It's nearly ten, and my French toast will not remain warm forever."

"Maybe we should let him sleep, like he obviously wants to do, and I could eat his portion for him," Bill proposed.

"You are a pig, you know zat, William Weasley," she glowered at him, utterly unamused.

"Sorry," he smiled unrepentantly, belying his words, "it's one of my newly acquired wolfish tendencies."

"Humph." Accusingly, she jabbed her finger into his chest. "It seems to me zat you use your werewolf bite to justify everything you do zat is undesirable."

"Of course I do, otherwise I'd have to admit that I'm not perfect, which sounds much too difficult to do," he replied, as he left the kitchen, and started up the stairs. When he reached the second floor landing, he walked over to Ron's door. He knocked on the door seven times, and frowned when he received no response…God, his brother was bringing sleeping like a log to a whole new level…he wished he could snooze like that, but, no, he had to be a light sleeper who woke up at the drop of a pin just about…

Deciding that waiting for a response to his knocking would mean that he was standing there until the Judgment Day, a prospect he did not find particularly appealing, Bill opened the door, figuring that since this was, after all, his house, he was justified in doing so. What he saw when he opened the door nearly made him scream, but, fortunately, his gasp of alarm had deprived him of the requisite breath to do so. Ron was not in his bed, and he wasn't anywhere else in the room either, by the look of it. His bags were not there, and, when Bill checked the closet, he was not hiding there.

Just as he was about to leave the room to ask for Fleur's aid in finding a clue as to where Ron had gone, he spotted a slip of parchment lying upon his brother's pillow. He hurried over to it, scooped it up, and struggled to read Ron's nearly illegible scrawl:

_**Dear Bill and Fleur: **_

_**I've gone back to Harry and Hermione. I discovered how to make Dumbledore's Deilluminator lead me back to them. Thanks for everything. You'll never know how much appreciate what you've done for me, being there for me when I needed you the most. **_

_**Love,**_

_**Ron**_

When he finished reading this, Bill smiled. His brother was gone again, back where he belonged. He had to inform Fleur of this, so he could indeed get his hand on those excellent pieces of French toast. Ron truly had the best timing for his departures, even if the same could not be said of the timing of his arrivals, which took place in the dead of night on weekdays.


	69. Chapter 69

Author's Note: Happy Birthday to xxx-fifi-xxx. I hope you have a wonderful day. Here's a virtual ice cream cake with cyberspace candles for your enjoyment. (Also, if you want, you can have some of the chocolate chip cookies that my older sister and I made two nights ago, but they turned out really messed up—blown out like blimps—because we tried to use cookie cutters on them, and, apparently that doesn't work. Isn't it nice to know that you can have a 4.125 GPA, and still be an idiot like me?)

I rummaged through all my Harry Potter books, but I didn't find anything that actually told me how the Fidelius Charm was performed, so I'm assuming that it is accomplished much like any other spell is. However, since Professor Flitwick stated in Book Three that it was an immensely complex charm, I am guessing that it requires more power to do. If you know something I don't about it, tell me in a review, but for now, I'm going to stick with how I portrayed the Fidelius Charm being cast upon Bill by Fleur.

--

Unexpected Visitors and Things That Go Bump in the Night

After Ron had departed abruptly to rejoin his two best friends, Bill had assumed that he had seen the last of his youngest brother for awhile, until they completed their quests, which would take God knows how long, if they were indeed as directionless as Ron had claimed the night he had showed up at Shell Cottage in the dead of night. However, he was to be proven wrong in this hypothesis, because shortly before Easter, there was another crash, in the middle of the night, outside Shell Cottage.

"Blast it!" Bill mumbled to his wife, rolling out of bed, and snatching his wand off his nightstand. "We've got to put a Fidelius Charm on this house sometime, so that we aren't always interrupted during our beauty sleep like this."

"It might be Ron again." Fleur also rose out of bed, and grabbed her wand off her bedside table.

"Or it could be Death Eaters," pointed out Bill grimly, as the pair of them darted downstairs, wands at the ready. "Although if they were the smart type, they would have surprised us better, so I guess it can only be the brutish, unrefined ones at this rate." When he came within a yard of the front door, he hollered, "Who's out there?"

"Dean Thomas!" A somewhat breathless voice replied through the wood. "I'm a friend of your brother Ron's from school― he bid me come here when we escaped from the Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor!"

Frowning, Bill debated inwardly if he was hearing the truth. The voice certainly sounded like that of a teenage lad's, but, after all, Death Eaters did have children, so he could just be pretending. Still, this boy could very well be Ron's Muggle-Born dorm-mate, because the timing of his arrival at Shell Cottage fit. That is, that evening, Bill had heard a broadcast on _Potterwatch_ about how an adolescent named Dean Thomas had been traveling with Griphook, Gornuck, Dirk Cresswell, and Ted Tonks, and had possibly survived along with Griphook when the others had been killed…Therefore, it was possible that Dean had been taken to the Malfoy's mansion, and had met up with the trio there.

"And Luna Lovegood!" Another, slightly ethereal, voice contributed. "I'm a friend of Ginny's, and we've got Mr. Ollivander with us. Your brother, Hermione, and Harry will be showing up any moment now."

That decided him. The dreamy voice was unmistakably similar to old Xeno Lovegood's, and, from Ginny's letters, Luna had been abducted from the Hogwarts Express by Death Eaters prior to the Christmas holiday, because her dad had been vocal in the opposition of the new regime, and it was possible that she and Ollivander had been kept in the same place. The place where Dean had been taken, and it was possible that the trio had chosen to rescue them for some reason. Besides, even if he fell for a Death Eater trick, he and Fleur had their wands, so they wouldn't be totally unprepared for a sudden assault.

Keeping his wand up in his right hand, he turned the door knob with his left to admit a motley crew, indeed. A thin, emaciated Ollivander, whose olive eyes were even creeper than usual, was stooping against a girl with a long sheet of blonde hair, as the two of them stumbled across the threshold, and a haggard looking black boy followed in their wake. All of them had scratches and scars lining their wrists and scars, as though they had been initiated into some tribe or gang or other, which demanded some sort of ritual cutting.

"I'll 'elp you upstairs, Meester Ollivander," Fleur stated, reaching forward, and relieving Luna of her human burden. "You need to rest. I'll get you some soup and medicine once ze others arrive."

As Fleur disappeared upstairs with a frail Mr. Ollivander clinging onto her arm like a sailor lost out upon the sea would clutch to any rock, no matter how tiny, Bill yanked a traveling cloak off the rack by the door, and wrapped it about his shoulders. Then, he opened the door again, preparing to step outside to greet the others when they arrived, so that he could assist them inside if necessary. Before he left, he eyed the two ragged teens. "If you want, you guys can rest, as you appear as if you'd benefit greatly from it― when was the last time either of you had a good night's sleep, huh?"

"We'll come out with you," the boy, Dean Thomas, asserted, trailing out the door behind Bill, and the Lovegood lass walked out the door, a dreamy expression on her face and in her eyes. Figuring that it would be pointless to debate with them on this count, Bill let them join him without any argument.

"So, what happened, then?" he inquired, lighting the tip of his wand, and reclining against the wall of his house. "Why were you at the Malfoy Manor, anyhow?"

"That's where the Death Eaters kept Mr. Ollivander and I imprisoned," explained Luna serenely, as though she was remarking upon the number of stars she could see in the heavens above.

"Yeah, and the Snatchers, led by that Fenrir Grayback, took Griphook, Ron, Harry, and Hermione there after they captured us," Dean added, his lips tightening. "They locked us all up in the basement with Ollivander and Luna here, and they tortured Hermione, because they wanted some information out of her, and they don't think that 'Mudbloods' matter very much. Luckily, though, a house-elf named Dobby, or something like that, saved us, and brought us here, since Ron claimed that we would be safe here. Harry and Ron went upstairs to rescue Griphook, and Hermione."

"God." Bill shook his head once Dean had finished with his harrowing tale. "Who needs horror stories when we've got reality?" Biting his lower lip, he confided, "Merlin, I'll feel loads better once the others show up."

As if on cue, at these words, a tangled mass that appeared to contain Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Griphook suddenly materialized at the far end of the garden. Without pausing to so mach glance at the other two beings standing vigil along with him, Bill raced in the toward the four newcomers. Dimly, he heard the sounds of Luna and Dean charging after him, and a few steps behind them, Fleur, who must have finished ministering to Ollivander, running after them.

Screams originating from Harry shattered the still night air as they approached. "Dobby, no, don't die, don't die―," the boy pleaded on the top of his voice, shaking the eerily stationary house-elf on the ground beside him, as if the creature was merely asleep, rather than dead, or as if he could restore him to life by the sheer force of willpower.

His heart breaking at the boy's anguish, but knowing he could do nothing to assist the elf now, Bill cast his glance about at the humans. Harry and Ron looked well enough, but Hermione, well, if the gashes all over her, and the pallor of her features were any indication, the Death Eaters had certainly been very effective in torturing the poor girl.

"Hermione," he started, putting out a hand to pull her to her feet, and carry her back into the house, because she hardly seemed to be in any condition to walk there by herself, but Ron intervened, shoving his hand away, and slinging her about his own back. Rolling his eyes, Bill ordered, "Ron, let me help you with her."

"I― can manage― just fine," gritted Ron, rising with some difficulty, and stumbling up toward the cottage, "thanks."

Shrugging, Bill decided to let Ron have his masculine ego moment, and leaned over to shake Harry gently, trying to yank him out of the throes of grief he was in, as Dean scooped up a grunting, protesting Griphook as though he were an exceptionally ugly baby, and carried him off to the house, Fleur hastening along with them, so that she could give him a dosage of Skele-Grow.

"Dobby, Dobby," Harry moaned, resting his forehead against the deceased elf's, and Bill's heart broke as he witnessed the adolescent's agony, his living, tear-filled jade eyes riveted on Dobby's glassy, empty ones that would never again reveal emotion of any sort.

"Harry." Bill squeezed the addressed's shoulder, striving to be ginger and firm at the same time in this endeavor. "Let it go. He's gone to a better place, and you can't bring him back from it."

Although his words did not register with the lad, his squeeze and shake had recalled Harry back to earth somewhat, for he abruptly demanded, anxiety for his friend etched on his face, "Hermione? Where is she?"

"Ron's taken her inside," soothed Bill. "She'll be all right." This wasn't a lie, because, though Hermione had looked awful, she was youthful, healthy, and strong, and would therefore be less challenging to heal, and, after all, she had, by the sound of it, only been tortured for a short time, so she would not be overly difficult to mend, especially since she would receive medical attention from Fleur rapidly.

Reassured, Harry focused his attention upon the house-elf once more. Stretching out a hand, he tugged a dagger, the weapon that doubtlessly had terminated the elf's existence, from its chest, and then wrapped the creature snugly in his cloak, as though he were tucking a toddler inside a blanket for a nap.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Harry, but I think you ought to bury your friend now," Bill proposed softly, not entirely certain that the addressed was listening to him, because there was a distant gleam in his eyes, implying that he was mentally a thousand miles away from the man who was speaking to him.

Yet, he must have grasped the gist of Bill's suggestion, for he insisted with more authority than Bill had expected him to display when he was in such emotional tumult, "I want to do it properly, not by magic. Have you got a spade?"

"Yeah, I do. Wait here," replied Bill, pushing himself to his feet from the crouch he had assumed to talk with Harry. "I'll fetch it from the shed." Within five minutes, he had returned with the shovel from the shed, had given it to Harry, and had shown him a secluded location at the edge of the garden between two flowering shrubs where the elf could be buried.

As Harry commenced digging into the cold, indifferent earth with a fury that suggested that the ground was somehow responsible for the house-elf's death, Bill established awkwardly, "I have to go inside and help Fleur with Hermione, Griphook and Ollivander, but I'll ask Ron and Dean to come out and aid you, okay?"

Harry nodded in assent, but Bill suspected that he had neither listened to nor comprehended his words. Oh, well, he had to get a move on anyhow, regardless of whether or not Harry had absorbed his comment. With that in mind, he hurried back into the cottage, and requested that Ron and Dean dig the grave with Harry, something they agreed to, and immediately raced outside to do. Then, following his spouse's commands, Bill gave their three patients differing amounts appropriate remedies that Fleur had proscribed for their various afflictions.

Once the injured had been cared for as well as they could be, Fleur rummaged about for clothes that the two girls could don for the burial, and eventually settled upon a dressing gown for the still pale and unsteady on her feet Hermione, and a yellow coat for Luna. After everyone was ready to venture outside, the three ladies, and Bill stepped outside, and saw that the three boys had finished readying the elf's tomb. When they reached the gravesite, Luna knelt beside Dobby, and for a moment, Bill thought that she was going to provide the elf with some sort of benediction, but all she did was close its blank, staring eyes, and whisper, "There, now he could be sleeping."

She was right, for as Harry tenderly set Dobby in his final resting place, the elf did indeed appear as though he was in a deep sleep, rather than dead. Maybe everybody else was thinking much along the same lines, for nobody said anything as they shuffled their feet, unable to meet anyone else's gaze until Luna piped up once again, "I think we ought to say something. I'll go first, shall I?"

When nobody contested this notion, and everybody stared at her rather than the elf, she continued softly, talking to Dobby as though he were still alive and could hear her, "Thank you so much for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair that you had to die, when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us. I hope you're happy now."

As far as eulogies went, it was not a particularly long or artful one, Bill noted inwardly, but it seemed to fit the elf, who had appeared to have lead a relatively simple, and unpretentious existence. And, anyhow, it expressed all that a good eulogy needed to anyhow.

Once she had finished with her short, but fitting tribute, Luna turned her moonlike eyes upon Bill's brother, who was next to her, obviously wishing for him to take the mantle from her. Clearing his throat with a sound reminiscent of gravel rattling about in a tin pail, Ron agreed in a thicker than normal voice that implied that he was holding back tears, "Yeah…thanks, Dobby."

"Thanks," added Dean in a barely audible tone, bowing his head in prayer.

"Good-bye, Dobby," Harry concluded on a swallow.

Now that everyone had finished saying their last words to the elf, Bill sensed that it was time to draw the funeral rite to end, since dragging it out would only result in more heartache for everybody, and he raised his wand, sending the dirt beside the grave sailing neatly into the tomb to create a small, reddish-brown mound of earth. Everybody stared at the dirt that concealed the house-elf from view for a long moment before Harry asked, "Do you mind if I stay here a moment?"

In response, everybody patted him on the shoulder as they filed past him, mumbling words of consolation, about how Dobby was better off in heaven, and was with God now, though the words did not seem to be a very effective balm for Harry. As they wended their way back up to the cottage hand-in-hand, Fleur murmured to Bill, "Poor 'Arry feels ze weight of ze elf's passing so much."

"He does," confirmed Bill quietly, "but, hopefully, he will accept the creature's sacrifice soon, as Dobby obviously wanted Harry, Ron, Hermione, and possibly Griphook to survive..."

"And thanks to 'im, zey did," Fleur completed the sentence as they entered the house behind Hermione, Luna, Dean, and Ron, "and 'is death looked like it was quick, so 'e id not really suffer. It could 'ave been far worse for 'im."

"Also, he died with a purpose, and fulfilling his mission, and very few beings can claim as much," her husband reasoned. "All in all, he did not have too dreadful an end, I'm sure."

Now that they were in the living room, Bill suddenly realized that there were many problems that he had to resolve this instant. Since the Death Eaters, by the sound of it, had seen Ron at Malfoy Manor, You-Know-Who and his minions would no longer accept the rumor that he was on his deathbed, which meant that the Weasleys at the Burrow were in danger of immediate reprisals, and Ginny, obviously, could not go back to Hogwarts, because the Death Eaters would kidnap her, and use her as leverage against the family and Harry. He needed to update the rest of the Weasleys at once, before it was too late...

Refusing to space down that lane, since it would only serve to hinder rather than help him, Bill whistled, and, obediently, Nekhebet soared over to him. After he stroked her feathers absently, he grabbed a piece of parchment from the nearby desk, and scribbled a hasty note to his father:

_Dad, _

_Ron and the others had a run-in with Death Eaters, so they know that he is alive, meaning the great "dying Ron" ruse is over. Ron is safe with me. Ginny can't go back to school. Get everyone out of the house as quickly as possible, because You-Know-Who's cronies will be showing up soon, I'll bet. Ron and the others are safe here, at the moment. Fleur and I are going to put the Fidelius Charm on the our cottage, so I'll send you an owl once we're done, so that you'll "know" where to find us in case of an emergency. Send me an owl when you are all safely out of the Burrow, so that I can cease biting my nails fretting about you lot. _

_Love, _

Bill

As soon as he finished signing the letter, he attached it to Nekhebet's leg, and sent her off into the night. Once Nekhebet had departed with the note, Bill whirled about to face his wife. "I'm afraid that we'll need to place the Fidelius Charm about this house. I'll be the Secret-Keeper, if you can perform the spell upon me."

"I've never done ze charm before in my entire life," she hedged, a discomfited expression clouding her face, "and my Charms instructor always declared zat it was an immensely complicated spell."

"There's a first time for everything, and I haven't accomplished, or attempted it before in my life, either." Bill shrugged. "However, I'm going to bet that you'll be more likely to be successful the first time around than I am, because aren't veelas especially skilled at weaving charms?"

"Well, yes, veelas are, but I hate to rely on it," sighed Fleur, who looked like she was engaged in an intense internal conflict. In the end, she reached out for his hand, and clenched it tightly in her own, and Bill could feel the power snake between them, as she drew on her magical inheritance, and rested her wand against his right wrist.

"Where do we live?" she asked.

"Shell Cottage in the outskirts of Tinsworth," he recited out of habit.

"Think about it, for you must keep it in your mind's eye as I cast ze spell" she bossed, and as he complied, she muttered to herself, "Secreto containare en eo."

The second these words emerged from her mouth, a silver fog engulfed them all, and Bill felt an overwhelming surge of knowledge, of power, surge into his veins like a surplus of oxygen would, leaving him almost inebriated, as if he had just consumed way too many glasses of Firewhiskey. Dizzily, he collapsed onto the sofa, and rested his head against the pillow. Paradoxically, while the charm had flooded him with an excess of something that he could not identify, but suspected was the secret of their whereabouts, it had sapped Fleur of her energy, for she toppled down beside him ashen and drained.

"Are you all right?" he asked, running a hand down her cheek, as soon as he could speak.

"I feel like a chew toy zat 'as been given to a battle dog, but I'll be fine." She forced herself to sit upright. "'Ow are you feeling?"

"Like all the hangovers in my life combined are nothing compared to this," he informed her, propping himself up with the arm of the sofa, even if it made him appear weaker than his spouse.

"Well, maybe zat will keep you out of ze wine cabinet for awhile, zen."

"No chance of that." Bill mustered himself enough to wrinkle his nose at her, and then added with more optimism, "I reckon that the spell worked, though."

Before Fleur had the opportunity to respond to this assertion, Ron interjected impatiently, "Well, that's great, so would you care to explain what worked, and what the heck you've been up to these past few minutes, or would that entail too much effort?"

"Chill out," Bill mumbled, as Nekhebet flew back to him through the window he had opened a couple of minutes ago to let her out. He detached the letter tied to her leg, and read his father's handwriting:

_**Bill, **_

_**You can stop ruining your fingernails now. Thanks for the warning. Everyone, including Fred and George, have been safely relocated to Auntie Muriel's. I've cast the Fidelius Charm over the place, and I'm Secret-Keeper there ( Number Thirteen, Ashton Place, Surrey).**_

_**Love always, **_

_**Dad**_

He Summoned a slip of parchment over to him, and answered:

_Dad, _

_I'm glad to hear that everyone is fine. If you ever need me, you know where to find me. (At Shell Cottage in Tinsworth by the sea.) _

_Love, _

_Bill_

When he sent Nekhebet off, he met Ron's irritated glance, and started to explain his actions this evening to the rest of the living room's population, most of whom were watching him, "Ron, since you had an encounter with the Death Eaters, they'll be aware that you are not wasting away at the Burrow, and are in fact aiding Harry. Therefore, they will attempt to retaliate upon our family, which is why I had to write to Dad, telling him to evacuate everyone from the Burrow. Everyone, including Fred, and George, have moved in with Muriel, and they've cast the Fidelius Charm about the residence, with Dad serving as Secret-Keeper. Fleur and I have done much the same thing here, as you might have gathered, with me playing the role of Secret-Keeper." He paused for a moment, shaking his head, as a host of unpleasant alternatives that he had not even considered previously washed over, and then, resumed, "It's fortunate that this security leak occurred close to a holiday, because none of us will be able to go to work, since the Death Eaters might abduct us. However, it's near Easter, so we have a ready made excuse for taking several days off, and we're lucky that Ginny's on holiday. If she'd been at Hogwarts, they could have taken her before we reached her. Now we know she's safe to."

Here he glanced around at the other occupants of the living room to ascertain whether they were still attending to his words, and he noticed that Harry was standing in the doorway, clearly not wanting to drip mud all over the carpet, which was why he had not entered the living room to unite with the rest of them. Nodding at the boy, he recapped what he had detailed to the others, and when he finished doing so, Harry wanted to know how exactly the rest of the Weasley family was shielded.

Bill repeated what he had told Ron, Dean, Fleur, Luna, and Hermione about the protections surrounding Muriel's, before he continued with what would be new information for all present, as he had only just devised this aspect of the plan a moment or so ago, "Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend―Fleur's given him Skele-Grow, so we could probably move them in an hour or―"

"No," Harry interrupted, lobbing off Bill's "two." Bill blinked at the boy, wondering when on earth he had received his Healer training, and when his voice had gained that confidence, that authority, and that conviction, even as he felt more than a tad miffed at being contradicted mid-sentence by someone― he did some rapid mental arithmetic― a decade his junior. "I need both of them here. I need to talk to them. It's important."

Figuring that he deserved a reason for why Griphook and Ollivander must continue to crowd his house, Bill opened his mouth to pursue this matter, but was once again cut off, this time before he could start, by the Boy Who Lived.

"I'm going to wash," Harry declared, glancing down at the mud and blood that caked his hands, "then I'll need to see them, straightaway." Without even considering the chance that Bill might disagree with such a proposal, he spun on his heel, and headed toward the kitchen.

Exasperated, Bill turned upon Ron. "Would you care to tell me why in the name of all that is holy and all that isn't why it is so crucial that Harry converse with Griphook and Ollivander immediately, or would you prefer that I test my Legilimency abilities upon you?"

"You can't perform Legilimency," glowered Ron.

"I'm a big brother, and I can do whatever I please," he retorted.

"Yeah, right, and Santa Claus lives with the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny," Ron snorted. "How old do you reckon that I am― six?"

"It was worth a shot." Bill shrugged, before riveting somber eyes the hue of dying leaves in autumn on his sibling's azure ones. "Anyway, would you kindly explain to me what happened tonight, and why Harry insists upon interrogating Griphook and Ollivander?"

"I don't know why Harry desires to question them," the younger Weasley educated him.

"Then explain what occurred tonight before you reached here," he persisted, "you must know that much, at least."

"It's not my secret to tell." Ron's arms folded over his chest inexorably. "It's Harry's and I'll not be Judas again."

At this juncture, Fleur emitted a tutting noise, and rose. "Bill, could I speak with you in ze hall?"

"Absolutely." Bill followed her into the hallway by the steps so that they were out of the earshot of their visitors.

"I can't stand zis," she exploded once they were certain that they could not be overheard, "zey are nice enough children, and I am 'appy to 'ave zem under our roof for 'as long as necessary, but zey must confide in us, and tell us what is going on, ozzerwise we can't 'elp zem. Furthermore, we can't keep Griphook and Ollivander 'ere for long, no matter what 'Arry argues au contraire."

"I share your annoyance," he replied heavily. "It is as vexing to me as it is to you that they trust us enough to arrive on our doorstep at an absurd hour, but will not trust us enough to justify why they are here, despite the fact that they come bearing a dead house-elf, a half-conscious goblin, and a tortured Hermione. I think, though, that we'll have to attain our information from Harry, as you witnessed that Ron is a dead end, although I haven't tried tickling the secret out of him yet, so it may not be as hopeless as I believe it currently is."

Fleur's response was aborted before it was born when Harry emerged from the kitchen, and approached them, proclaiming that he must see Griphook and Ollivander.

"No," Fleur pronounced, "you will 'ave to wait 'Arry. Zey are both ill and tired―"

"I'm sorry," Harry overrode her, neither angry nor timid, just assured, "but it can't wait. I need to talk to them now. Privately― and separately. It's urgent."

When he heard Harry's comment, Bill suspected that if he had been a canine, his hackles would have risen. How dare this boy presume to boss him around in his own home when he was merely a guest? Nothing in all of his life had prepared him for this, taking orders from someone so many years his junior. The fact was, Bill Weasley was a leader, not a follower. Even when he had been a child, he had been in charge of the other Weasley kids, and at Hogwarts, he had been prefect, and later Head Boy…yes, in his own way, he was as bossy as Percy, as Charlie and the twins would be delighted to remind him.

"Harry, what the hell's going on?" charged Bill, with a little more hostility than was customary with him. "You turn up here with a dead house-elf, and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she's been tortured, and Ron's just refused to tell me anything―"

"We can't tell you what we're doing," established Harry, his tone flatter than a slab of wood after it had been sandpapered. "You're in the Order, Bill. You know Dumbledore left us with a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone else."

Expressing his own sentiments at Harry's assessment, Fleur exhaled impatiently. Chewing on his tongue so that he would not snap, as he longed to do, that he did not appreciate being lectured to about his duties and obligations by a teenager, Bill struggled to control his wrath.

When he was sure that he had mastered his ire, rather than permitted it to dominate him, he sought to reflect objectively upon Harry's words. Perhaps the lad was correct, no matter how much it galled him to admit it. Perhaps he just had to have faith in Dumbledore and Harry, and trust that they understood what they were doing. After all, wasn't faith all about trusting someone even when you had no way of ascertaining the validity of their conclusions? And, since operating in the blindness of ignorance had always been a pet peeve of Bill's wouldn't that just enhance the value of his sacrifice? And wasn't the Order founded upon the precept of self-sacrifice, and not being afraid to take the hard path through the jungle that was life? Yes, it was, he determined. Well, that settled it, then.

"All right," Bill conceded to Harry, deciding that he could explain to his wife his abrupt shift in stance later. "Who do you want to talk to first?"

For the first time, Harry hesitated before answering, "Griphook. I'll speak to Griphook first."

After that, Bill led Harry, Ron, and Hermione upstairs into the master bedroom, and carried Griphook into meet with them. Then, he hurried downstairs to assist Fleur in making up beds in the living room for the three visiting boys to employ during their stay.

"Why didn't you back me up earlier?" Fleur asked indignantly as they tugged the covers up on the sofa-bed. "I could 'ave benefitted from your support."

"I realized that Harry was right," confessed Bill, plumping up a pillow. "Since I'm an Order member, I have to trust that Harry and Dumbledore comprehend what they were and are doing, although I don't know what is going on. That's what faith is all about."

"'Arry and 'is friends are just teenagers," she countered, shaking her mane of silver hair in a way that still made his knees tremble, "and zey need all ze 'elp zey can get from zose of us zat know more magic zan zem, if you ask me."

"They are pretty amazing adolescents, though, as they have survived stuff that I don't know for certain that I could endure." He smiled at her as they completed the task of creating a make-do bed. "Have faith in me, my love, even if you don't have faith in them."

"Fine." She kissed him swiftly on the cheek as they left the living room together. "I just don't want anyone to get injured."

"Why must you always desire gifts that I cannot purchase you?" he complained as they entered the kitchen, and he recognized that it was dawn. Groaning inwardly at a night's lost slumber, which he would never regain, he set to work making himself a mug of coffee that would provide him with a decent amount of artificial, caffeine-induced, energy, which was all he could expect at the moment.


	70. Chapter 70

Disclaimer: Yes, I own Harry Potter. (I was just testing to see if you were awake. I actually don't own it, in case you were really in any doubt.)

Author's Note: Sorry it took awhile for me to update, but my finals are coming up so I had to study, and I suffered severe writer's block with this chapter. Then, of course, I had to get a stomachache the night I was going to write this, so I decided not to, since I didn't want to get vomit all over the keyboard. Hopefully, though, it turned out well enough in the end. (On the plus side, though, I did get my HSPA results today, and I got "Advanced Proficient" in English, and only "Proficient" in Math. I missed "Advanced Proficient" by two points, and it is all the fault of Geometry, grrr.)

Warning: Some really gross food is mentioned in this chapter, so you might not want to eat and read at the same time, if you have a sensitive stomach, or are recovering from a bout of influenza or something.

--

Secrets Can Kill

More rapidly than he initially would have figured, Bill and his spouse adapted to life in the crowded Shell Cottage, and, although he enjoyed his job considerably, even though it required him to arise several hours before his body clock would appreciate, he found that he liked all the time he had off of work. In fact, with the late spring breeze that complemented the warmth of the sun coupled with the sea that was always within hearing and sight, it felt rather as though they were all on vacation together, although with all the beings jammed into one small house, he discovered that he was indeed plagued by what his old friend Mike O'Connor might have termed as "cabin fever." As his elbows jostled against some guest or other's at the table, or as he banged into someone on the stairs or in the halls, Bill would abruptly recall how Mike would tell stories about how every summer in late August he and the rest of his family would go to a summer house in the woods along with two neighboring families, that each had a handful of kids. Although Mike had insisted that overall these experiences had been fun, he, like everyone else in the cabin, had also been prone to burts off claustrophobia, irritability, and sheer boredom, especially on rainy days. Whenever his mind focused on Mike, Bill would wonder how his former buddy was faring in Azkaban...surely he had not been roomed with anyone too dangerous, and he had probably just been shoved into a cell with a pack of other perfectly respectable Muggle-Borns whose only crime had been their ancestry and the fact that they had not thought to flee, but doubtlessly Mike would be afflicted with a severe case of "cabin fever" by now.

Of course, besides "cabin fever" other aspects destroyed the vacation feel of the situation. First of all, there was the news reports from _Potterwatch_, which were never very uplifting, and then, there was the fact that Bill was convinced that his brother, Harry, and Hermione were plotting something, and that made him uneasy, because the scheme they were concocting seemed to involve Griphook, and it was never an auspicious omen when the uninitiated decided to engage in dealings with goblins, because goblins were shrewd, and they always manipulated every business so they would benefit the most, and they really did not care much who they injured in the process. And Bill did not want to see any of the three of them murdered by Griphook, or something.

His first inclining that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were dealing with Griphook had appeared, after a bit of appropriate reflection after a decent amount of mind-reviving slumber, when Harry had insisted upon meeting with the goblin on the night of his arrival at Shell Cottage, and when he had protested the plan to relocate the goblin. Confirmation that the three adolescents were indeed plotting something with Griphook revealed itself to Fleur on the third day since the midnight appearance of so many people and creatures in their garden.

Bill had been sitting in the living room playing a game of Wizarding chess with Dean while Luna read one of his tomes on Ancient Runes, a topic that she seemed to find highly intriguing, which would not have been off-putting in itself, but was, because she persisted in informing Bill in her fairy tone that the Runes would reveal even more fascinating secrets if he read them upside-down, when a thunderstorm blustered into the room in the shape of Fleur.

"Zat goblin 'is worse zan Graysavion, Ragnock, and Gornuck wrapped into one repulsive bundle," she announced without preliminary as she bustled through the room, her eyes tempests. "'E really zinks zat 'e can just order me about whenever 'e feels like it without so much as a 'pleaze' and 'zank you'! 'E expects me to prepare 'is nauseating fungi and everything just because 'e commands—commands, not asks, mind you—zat I do so! And now 'e wants me to fetch 'Arry, Ron, and 'Ermione so zat zey can visit with 'im, without so much as considering zat it might be offensive to me zat 'e requests me to get someone else upstairs. What—is my company not pleasing?"

"Your company is more than pleasing, and you know it," her husband soothed while she took a breather mid-tirade. However, Fleur elected to ignore this, as she plunged on:

"Well, I 'ave a 'alf a mind to not get ze three of zem, but I suppose zat I will just zis once, but after that, I will not play ze role of messenger woman!"

"Did Griphook mention what he wanted to speak with Harry and the others about?" inquired Bill as she marched over to the door, her spine stiff with indignation.

"No," she responded shortly, as she twisted the knob with more force than the task demanded, "and I didn't ask, because I try to avoid speaking with zat aggravating and presumptuous creature as much as possible." With that, she slammed the door, and hastened off, most likely in search of the three teenagers.

For the next four days, the mystery of what exactly the three teenage humans and the one adult goblin had discussed troubled him, because after their private conversation with Griphook, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were constantly by the goblin's side in the bedroom Hermione and Luna shared in the night, when Griphook moved in with Ollivander, and they only ever emerged from the room when Fleur called them for meals. Much Fleur's ire, the same could not be said of Griphook, who demanded that food trays of his various fungi and completely raw meat that even Bill would not have touched, be carried to him in his bed, despite the fact that his legs had mended just fine, and, unlike the frail Ollivander, he was not in need of such a service. Finally, Fleur lost patience with this arrangement one evening after she placed lamb chops and string beans at everyone's places.

"I 'ave 'ad enough of zis nonsense with ze goblin," she seethed, placing Ollivander's bowl of porridge on a tray with a delicacy that was at utter odds with the expression on her face. Ollivander, like Griphook, required special cooking, because he was still unable to keep down anything too solid, and anything that wasn't bland. "I do not mind bringing up a dish for Meester Ollivander of course, as 'e is in a most awful state, and 'e is always very polite with me― assuring me zat if 'e can ever repay me I 'ave only to ask 'im to do me a service. But Griphook, well, 'e is not even unable to walk anymore, and 'e never thanks me for making 'im a different meal, and 'e never seems to notice zat I lug up a tray for 'im! And―"

"Relax, Fleur," interjected Bill, whose mouth was watering as he eyed the rare lamb chop before him that he really could not wait to sink his teeth into. "I'll resolve this, okay?"

"I can solve ze problem all by myself, zank you," she educated him, sticking up her nose haughtily as she dumped a bowl of a hot, swampy stew that smelt suspiciously similar to boiled mud onto a tray with far less care than she had displayed with Ollivander's food.

"It's far too late for that now, my dear," he countered, rising and striding over to stand behind her as she threw a small dirt-colored appetizer of some sort beside the stew-swamp mixture, and then placed a viscous cold drink that had the consistency of grainy sludge, or burned syrup beside it. Looking at the peculiar supper arrayed before him, Bill decided that he really did not need to eat again anytime in the upcoming century and a half. "Since you've complained about it so loudly, I reckon that it's my problem, as well, so I'll just take up the trays to Ollivander, and Griphook. When I deliver Griphook his dinner, I'll let it slip to him that this arrangement ends tonight. From now on, if he wants to eat, he'll come down here and sup with the rest of us, and he'll be grateful for it."

"Well, if you wish to carry up ze trays, I won't attempt to stop you." Fleur shrugged, although a faint half-smile quirked up the corners of her lips. As she established as much, she shoved them into his hands. ""Ere, you can take zem upstairs now. Be careful with zem, though. I don't want Griphook's food all over ze rug, as I 'ave no doubt zat it will leave an 'orrendous stain."

"Yes, Mother," he teased her, accepting the burden, and carefully weaving his way through the obstacle course of chairs and cooking surfaces that was otherwise referred to as the kitchen, and started to climb the steps, an endeavor that took him longer than it would his ancient Auntie Muriel to accomplish. This was not something that he relished, because the aromas that Griphook's victuals emitted were so foul that Bill would honestly have preferred carrying a mountain of dragon dung upstairs.

As he trudged up the stairwell, ensuring that he did not spill so much as a spoonful on the carpet, and appreciating his old friends Rottentooth and Foulbreath, because they had not eaten such gunk around him and Louis, he pondered what exactly prompted Griphook to consume such notoriously disgusting meals. Perhaps he had a freaky genetic mutation that afforded him a far broader palate than most organisms could stomach without giving into the ravages of food poisoning, Bill mused, or perhaps goblins in general were so evolved that they had transcended petty human concerns in foodstuffs such as smell, or perhaps when a being, like Griphook, had been around for two centuries, all its taste buds died, and taste was, therefore, no longer an issue to contend with.

Determining with a sigh that he would never know the answer to this riddle, he stared down into the fathoms of the stew below, and immediately rued doing so as bile rose rebelliously in his throat a nanosecond later. The bowl of that dreadful brown-gray substance that resembled a particularly nasty batch of vomit was, it appeared to his unschooled eye, studded with miniature floating chunks of animal fat, and freckled with the scales of some reptile or other, and, oh, God, the smell was like a rat that had died and had been left out too long in the sun. When he reached the top of the stairs, he immediately crossed over to Griphook's room.

"Oh, you brought it up to me this time," growled the goblin in his native tongue the second that Bill entered, "you're late, and I was wondering what was causing the delay."

"Enjoy," mumbled Bill, eagerly resting the tray upon the nightstand to the right of Griphook. More seriously, he stated, locking his gaze on the goblin, "By the way, I wished to inform you that, since your legs have mended so well, Fleur and I feel that it is unnecessary to carry your meals up to you. As such, if you want to eat a meal, you will come down at the appointed time, as do the rest of us, save Ollivander, who is too weak to do so."

"I won't consume the disgusting stuff you humans eat," Griphook grunted, as he slurped and gobbled at his stew, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a pig whose trough had just been refilled.

"I suspect that Fleur will be willing to continue cooking you your, um, unique meals, as long as you agree to take them along with the rest of us," replied Bill.

"I guess I'll learn to live with that, then." Griphook munched irascibly on an animal tendon, and Bill stifled the urge to avert his eyes from the revolting sight this action created.

"Good, I'd hate for anyone to die on my watch." Taking care to maintain a causal tone, he observed, "You've been spending a notable amount of time with my little brother, Harry, and Hermione. Have you taken a fancy to them?"

"You are perfectly aware that a goblin could never be found of any humans," snarled Griphook, as he finished the stew and commenced eating the dirt-colored appetizer, instead.

"Are you running your own babysitting service now that you are no longer employed at Gringotts?"

"I am not a bloody house-elf, and you would do well to remember that, Weasley." Griphook's arms crossed over his chest, as he abruptly stopped eating the appetizer. "Besides, rock head, if I was going to run a babysitting service, I would have you as one of my children, just like I would watch that Lovegood girl and that Thomas boy."

"So what are you up to?" Bill pressed.

"A business venture that does not concern you." As he returned to his meal, Griphook waved a dismissive hand. "You know the Gringotts confidentiality policy as well as I, by now: All transactions that involve the bank will be kept secret, unless the customers specifically request that someone be told of it. Potter, young Weasley, and Granger did not request that I explain our deal to you, if you asked about it, and so I can't do so."

When he heard this, Bill bit his lower lip. So, it was as he thought, then. The trio was indeed entering into a contract with a goblin, and they were doing it blindfolded, as they had no understanding of the mentality of goblins, and this one was especially hostile to humans, meaning they could not have chosen a worse test dummy if they had tried. Well, it was a good thing his life was not simple, he noted grimly, or else he just might get bored, and wouldn't that be horrible?

"Griphook," he attempted, even though he suspected that it was pointless, "you know as well as I do that Harry and the others can't just sally into the bank when there is a prize on their heads!"

"That's none of my concern, as wizarding wars are of no consequence to me and my kind." Griphook shot him a glance of pure disdain. "Anyway, nobody mentioned anything about going into Gringotts, Weasley."

"You're right about that much," muttered Bill, deciding that although Griphook would not provide him with any details about his dealings with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, he could still watch them, and warn them of the dangers of what they were doing when he had an opportunity. At this point, he recollected that he had to deliver the porridge to Ollivander before it became as cold as stone, and before his own meal was ruined, something he did not want to occur, since he might be able to stomach it, even after witnessing Griphook gobble his stew and half of his appetizer.

After giving a grateful Ollivander his supper, Bill returned downstairs, and was, to his relief, able to eat a platter of lamb chops and string beans while studying the trio closely. Unfortunately, they were too skilled at working secretly to whisper at the table, so he could glean no more information about what they were plotting, although he could tell by the manner in which they exchanged glances with each other throughout the meal that they were indeed planning something.

For days, Bill was unable to find a time to speak with Harry alone about the dangers inherent in conducting business relations with goblins, since the boy spent his time locked up with his friends and Griphook, and he chose to let the matter be for awhile. Such a tactic meant that his days sailed by relatively quickly, and soon enough Ollivander had recovered enough strength to be able to be transferred to Auntie Muriel's. Fleur took pleasure in this, because it meant that she could force Griphook to sleep on the couch downstairs, and move the three boys up into Ollivander's room.

When Bill escorted Ollivander down the steps, bearing his suitcase, as the wandmaker was still incapable of summoning the reserves of energy to perform such a feat, he saw that Luna and Dean were throwing some more wood into the fire, Harry was helping Fleur make a delicious dinner that seemed to involve steak, and Hermione was setting the table. Everyone turned from their tasks, however, to regard him and Ollivander as they finished their descent into the kitchen.

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander!" exclaimed Luna, sounding far less dreamy than usual, tossing down her armful of kindling with a thud, and darting over to hug the elderly gentleman as though he were her grandfather.

"And I you, my dear," murmured Ollivander, patting her shoulder affectionately. "You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that― that terrible place." Obviously, he was referring to the Malfoy dungeons, where they must have been imprisoned together for months.

The thought of these good people being trapped in a cold, hard, and dank dungeon made Bill want to strangle someone, and he had to check that he was not squeezing Ollivander's arm with the intensity of a python. Fortunately, he wasn't, as the wandmaker was not up to such manhandling, and Fleur would not appreciate it if she had to have him on her hands again just when she thought she was rid of him, and Shell Cottage was about to become less packed with visitors.

"So, au revoir, Meester Ollivander," said Fleur, kissing him on both cheeks once Luna had disengaged herself from him. "And I wonder whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill's Auntie Muriel? I never returned 'er tiara."

"It will be an honor," Ollivander answered with a tiny bow that caused him to wobble dangerously, "the very least I can do in return for your generous hospitality."

As Griphook sidled into the kitchen, glowering as usual, a smiling Fleur withdrew a worn velvet case from a drawer, and opened it to show the wandmaker the contents. Inside, rested the glittering and twinkling tiara that she had donned on her wedding day.

Ollivander gasped at the beauty of it, as he accepted it, but it was Griphook who spoke first, commenting with a leer, "Moonstones and diamonds. Made by goblins, I think?"

"And paid for by wizards," Bill reminded him, quietly but firmly. He would not be intimidated by goblins, and he would represent his species in this classic, age-old debate that was at the core of the squabbles between humans and goblins: the idea of ownership and inheritance rights between the purchaser and the maker.

He thought Griphook would retort, but he decided not to in the end, and just settled for giving Bill a furtive death glare. When Griphook did not fire back, Bill set off with Ollivander into the gusty night.

An hour later, he returned from Auntie Muriel's, where he found Muriel screeching at the twins, who were conducting an owl-order joke shop out of her back room, although she cheered up enough to grumble when Bill gave her the tiara, "Ah, you've given it back to me― what a surprise. I thought you had stolen it," a charge that he was denied the chance to respond to, because his parents and Ginny entered the room at that moment, and he had to greet them.

When he had sat down for supper at Shell Cottage, and filled everyone in on what had happened at Muriel's, a bang on the door disrupted their dinner. Like everybody else, Bill's head swiveled toward the sound, and for a second, they all just stared at the door, before they regained their senses, and started to move. Without being fully aware of what his body was doing, Bill leapt to his feet, pulling his wand out of his pocket, and pointing it at the door. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione do the same thing, as Griphook, his survival instincts well-honed as were the rest of his species, slipped silently under the table, so that he would be out of sight of any intruder.

"Who is it?" Bill hollered.

"It is I, Remus John Lupin!" shouted a voice over the wailing wind. "I am a werewolf, married to Nympahdora Tonks, and you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come in an emergency!"

The voice on the other side was indisputably Lupin's, and the information was too personal for a Death Eater to know, and, so, Bill raced over to the door, and wrenched it open. As soon as the door opened, Remus toppled over the threshold. He was ashen-faced, wrapped in a traveling cloak, and his hair was windswept. All in all, he looked harried, and worse for the wear, and Bill wondered what new horror could excite such a response from the normally composed Remus.

"It's a boy! We've named him Ted, after Dora's father!" he cried, after scanning the room to ensure that he could trust everyone present.

For a moment, a quiet so absolute that Bill could hear every crackle the roaring fire admitted greeted this. For Bill, it was as though the word "baby" had no meaning for him, and he had just heard a strange sound emerging from Remus' lips when he had used the word. There was no way that anything good could come from this war, and there was no way that a new life could be started in the middle of all this. Then, he recalled that Remus had visited him and Fleur to tell them that Tonks was pregnant…yes, she would have come to full term now, which meant that Remus had a son. Remus had a son!

Just as his mind reached this stunning conclusion, Hermione shrieked, "What? Tonks― Tonks has had the baby?"

"Yes, yes, she's had the baby!" Remus beamed around at the assembled, as all around the table came cries of delight mingled with sighs of relief that for once the news was happy, not sad. Seeming somewhat dazed by his own elation, he repeated, "Yes, yes, a boy!" He strode around the room, and hugged Harry fiercely. When he finally released the boy, he asked, "You'll be godfather?"

"M-me?" Harry blinked, and then checked over his shoulder to ascertain that there wasn't a person behind him that Remus might have been addressing the inquiry to. There wasn't.

"You, yes, of course." Remus nodded. "Dora quite agrees with me that there is nobody better."

As Harry stammered out a "yeah", Bill decided that the occasion warranted some of Louis' finest French wine, and he hurried out of the room to fetch it, trusting that his wife would be able to entice Remus to join them all for a drink. Sure enough, when he returned bearing a bottle of expensive French wine under his arm along with goblets for everyone present, he heard Remus conceding, "I'll join you for a drink, but I can't stay long. I must get back."

Grinning, Bill filled his goblet with wine, and shoved it into the hand of the new dad. "Here you go." As Remus accepted the drink with thanks, Bill poured wine into the rest of the goblets, and gave one to everybody there. When all of them had their goblets, they raised them up for a toast.

"To Teddy Remus Lupin," Remus declared, "a great wizard in the making!"

"To Teddy," the rest of them echoed, and buried their noses in their glasses.

"'Oo does 'e look like?" Fleur asked, sipping her wine.

"I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me." Remus shrugged. "Not much hair. It looked black when he was born, but I swear it's turned ginger in the hour since. Probably be blond by the time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks' hair started changing color the day that she was born." Here he drained his goblet, and Bill bent forward to refill it.

That one more glass soon became two, and then three, and soon Bill had to open another bottle of wine, because nobody seemed to want to end the festivity. It felt so wonderful to be able to let down their guard, to talk and laugh with one another, and to listen to the sounds of the wind buffeting the cottage, knowing they were safe inside it with the fire blazing away behind them. Surely, it wasn't a crime to forget the war for a little while, and rejoice in the birth of a baby.

Although he had consumed enough wine to make him feel a tad dizzy, as though someone had messed with gravity in his house, Bill's eyes were still alert enough to detect it when Griphook slunk out from beneath the table and up the stairs to his bedroom. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who noticed this, because Harry was following the goblin's progress as well…interesting, very interesting.

Not long after Griphook's disappearance, Remus insisted upon departing, and, after hugging the women and shaking hands with the men, he left. Deciding that it was probably a good idea to start cleaning up after the party, Bill scooped up some dirty glasses from the table, and was pleased to note that Harry was doing the same thing, which meant that he would have a chance to speak with the boy alone in the kitchen if he played his cards right. As they entered the kitchen together, he commented, "Godfather, Harry! A real honor! Congratulations!"

Politely, Harry mumbled a thank-you as he set down the empty goblets in the sink, and Bill shut the door to drown out the excited voices still celebrating Teddy's birth, undaunted by Remus' absence. An excuse to party was an excuse to party, after all.

"I wanted a private word with you, actually, Harry," he continued, as he dumped the glasses he was carrying in the sink, as well. "It hasn't been easy to get an opportunity with the cottage this full of people." Here, he paused, considering his next words carefully. It would not due to drive the younger man off, or to sound too accusing. Finally, he settled on, "You're planning something with Griphook."

To his relief, Harry did not deny this assessment, but just looked steadily at him, waiting for him to go on.

"I know goblins," he went on, obliging the boy. "I've worked for Gringotts ever since I left Hogwarts. As far as there can be friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin friends." Well, it probably wasn't a good idea to imply that goblins engaged in what humans would term as friendships, and so he modified this. "Or, at least, goblins I know well, and like."

He hesitated again. He suspected that it was useless to ask, but it was worth a shot, "Harry, what do you want from Griphook, and what have you promised him in return?"

"I can't tell you that." Harry shook his head rapidly. "Sorry, Bill."

This did not come as much of a surprise, since he had not expected that the boy would be willing to confide his plans in anyone, but before he could say anything else, the door swung open behind them. Fleur was trying to carry in more empty goblets.

"Wait." Bill held up a hand to stop her. "Just a moment."

Obediently, she nodded, and backed out of the kitchen. When she left, he closed the door after her. Turning back to Harry, he resumed seriously, "Then I have to say this, if you have struck any kind of bargain with Griphook, and if that bargain involves treasure, you must be exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of ownership, payment, and repayment are not the same as human ones." Once again, that was an understatement. If a goblin felt that you had tricked him, you could expect an unpleasant death in your near future, even if you had only cost him a handful of Knuts.

"What do you mean?" Harry squirmed, looking disconcerted.

"We are talking about a different breed of being," explained Bill, somewhat awkwardly, feeling that it was weird to try and define a species as complex as humans in a sentence or two. "Dealings between wizards and goblins have been fraught for centuries, but you'll know all that from History of Magic." From his years at Hogwarts, he was aware that next to no students paid any attention to what Binns yammered on, and he intended to drive home the point that Harry truly did know next to nothing about goblins and their history in that statement. When he saw Harry's discomfiture increase, he knew that he had been successful in this, and he went on, "There has been fault on both sides, and I would never claim that wizards have been innocent. However, there is a belief among some goblins, and those at Gringotts are perhaps most prone to it, that wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and treasure, that they have no respect for goblin ownership."

"I respect―" Harry began indignantly, appearing miffed that Bill would think him a bigot.

"You don't understand, Harry," interrupted Bill quickly, shaking his head to show that the boy should not take offense to his remark. "Nobody could understand unless they have lived with goblins. To a goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is the maker, not the purchaser. All goblin-made objects are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs."

"But if it was bought―" Harry protested.

"Then they would consider it rented by the one who had paid the money," he countered. He went on to detail how goblins could not stomach the notion of goblin-made objects passing from wizard to wizard, as was revealed in Griphook's reaction to the tiara being given to Ollivander to hand back to Muriel, and how many goblins, like Griphook were convinced that it was robbery to keep goblin-made objects in wizarding possession, rather than goblin hands, once the original purchaser had died, unless, of course, further payment was made.

"All I am saying," he finished, turning to leave, "is to be very careful what you promise goblins, Harry. It would be les dangerous to break into Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin." This was true, as the odds of surviving once you had broken faith with a goblin were about as great as reaching lightspeed by flapping your arms. Not that the odds of living to tell the tale after attempting to steal from Gringotts were very encouraging, either, as they were also in the purely theoretical number range, but they were slightly better.

"Right," agreed Harry, sounding somewhat absent, "yeah. Thanks. I'll bear that in mind."

As he returned to the sitting room, Bill prayed that this would indeed be the case, but his hopes dimmed when, a few days later, Hermione asked him if she could burrow the tent and camping equipment he and Fleur had received for their wedding, and he had no choice but give into her request.


	71. Chapter 71

Author's Note: I think that Dean's comment in Book Seven that he had "no proof" that his father was a wizard suggest that he suspects that his biological dad was not a Muggle, so that is my basis for his comments.

Thank my school for having its first ever heat day, because that gave me the time to write this, instead of finishing the nonsense I'm writing for A.P. US (an essay on how I can personally ensure liberty and justice for all) that I'm basically guaranteed to get a 100 percent on, as long as I turn something in, according to our teacher, so here we go.

Sorry, it's kind of sort, but next chapter is the battle, so it will turn out to be longer, I suspect, and this seemed like a good spot to end it for now.

――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――

The Die is Cast

The day after Hermione asked to borrow camping equipment because the Death Eaters had destroyed their old one when they had come calling, Harry, Ron, and Hermione departed from Shell Cottage. To Bill's discomfiture, he had not been able to see the three teenagers off, because Harry, Hermione, and Ron had been adamant that he, Fleur, Dean, and Luna not awaken early in the morning to see them off. The fact that they had insisted so upon keeping their machinations secret worried him almost as much as the fact that they were leaving in Griphook's company did.

Still, he chose to honor their request, figuring that they would do whatever they planned, regardless of any protests he made, and, therefore, the less he knew about their future schemes the happier he would be, and happiness was at a premium these days.

That was Bill's theory, anyway. However, he suspected that it might not have been entirely accurate when he discovered that he could only nibble away at his breakfast, and that his morning cup of coffee caused his stomach to revolt so much at the sight of it that he was eventually forced to toss it down the drain. Once he had swallowed perhaps an eighth of his meal, he glanced across the table at Dean, who was chewing glumly away at a sausage, suggesting that Harry, Ron, and Hermione's departure had not cheered him, either. "When you're done, Dean, I'll be more than willing to assist you in transporting your belongings from the living room up into Griphook's old bedroom. I suspect that you'll find it more comfortable in there."

"Thanks." Immediately, Dean dropped the half-eaten sausage, as though it had scalded his hand. "I'm done now, actually."

The pair of them rose, and brought their dishes over to the sink, where Bill set them to washing themselves with a lazy flick of his wand. Watching this, Dean sighed, "I wish that those blasted Death Eaters hadn't taken my wand from me, and I wish that Ollivander would make me a new one, as he did for Luna."

"Underage wizards like yourself aren't permitted to perform magic outside school, anyhow," Bill attempted to hearten the lad, as they exited the kitchen together, and headed down the hallway, into the sitting room.

"If it weren't for the Death Eaters, I'd be at Hogwarts now, where I would be allowed to use magic," Dean scowled, walking over to his side of the living room, and chucking things at random into his trunk.

"There's a faster and neater way to do that, you know," Bill teased, raising his wand. "_Pack_!" At his command, Dean's clothes and other possessions all soared into the trunk. When the trunk had packed itself, he stepped over to it, and examined his handiwork. Shrugging, he noted, "Mum can still do a loads better job, but it would be far worse if Tonks had done it, and it will certainly suffice for a trip upstairs. Speaking of which, _locomoter trunk_!"

Dean's luggage flew into the air, and preceded the two of them up the stairwell. While they climbed upstairs, Bill commented, "It must be difficult, being a Muggle-Born, not learning about all those useful sorts of charms for years."

"I'm not sure if I really am a Muggle-Born," mumbled Dean.

"Being a Muggle-Born is nothing to be ashamed of, Dean. Plenty of the best, both magically and morally, witches and wizards have been Muggle-Borns, and many pure-blood witches and wizards have been morally and magically horrible. For instance, my new pure-blood secretary, Nyssa Greengrasss, who has recently taken the position of intelligent and competent Muggle-Born Madelyn Peri, would be fortunate if she could determine one end of a cauldron from the other by herself."

"I'm not ashamed of my blood," Dean snapped, as they followed the trunk into Griphook's old room, and began to organize his clothing in the dresser drawers. "It's just―my dad left my mum when I was only a few weeks old, so I don't know much about him."

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Bill, awkward, but sincere, as he placed a pair of the boy's trousers in the appropriate drawer. He couldn't imagine growing up without a father to care for him, or guide him, and worse still, it would be so agonizing to live with the searing knowledge that your dad had abandoned you, and it would be nearly impossible to vanquish that tiny, treacherous voice inside your heart, where such matters weighed the most, that whispered how you had done something wrong, and how your dad would still be around if you had been less naughty.

"You don't need to be, for I'm not seeking your sympathy, or anyone else's for that matter," Dean informed him, his eyes steady, as they locked on the older man's. "When I was three, my mum married another man, and he was good to me― like a dad, not a stepdad in some horror story, and they gave me two younger sisters, Aeisha, and Mhina, to love and care for. I wouldn't have left them when we experienced our lovely government switchover, except that eventually I suspected that the law would chase after me, and I didn't want to endanger them."

"You did the right thing," Bill reassured him softly.

"I'm aware of that, but that's not the point." Here Dean shook his head rapidly, resembling an elephant trying to flap a bug off its ears. "The point is that my mum has explained to me when I asked about my biological dad that she had been getting along swell with him, and that it came as an utter shock to her when he went and left her all alone with me, not even leaving an address where she could contact him for support payments. She reckons that he was so frightened by the prospect of being a father that he had to flee from the responsibility, or that he had found a prettier girl to call his own."

"But you don't believe that," observed the other, placing the last of Dean's shirts in the dresser.

"No, I don't." Dean offered a somber nod of assent. "I figure that he might have been a wizard, and have feared for our safety, and have left us to protect us from You-Know-Who and his minions. After all, this would have occurred during You-Know-Who's first reign of power. If this true, that would make me a half-blood, like Seamus and Harry."

In response, Bill bit his lower lip, thinking that the odds of this being factual were next to nil. Obviously, the poor boy was still wounded by his blood father's decision to abandon him, and who could blame him? Fortunately, Dean did not detect his companion's skepticism for he was staring out the window down at the garden below, where Luna was magically peeling a batch of potatoes for Fleur with her new wand.

"Maybe Luna will agree to let me peel those potatoes with her wand, if I offer to draw her a Crumple-Horned Snorkack." The adolescent's tone was wistful, as they completed unpacking his trunk, and rose together, directing their footsteps toward the staircase.

That evening at supper, Dean was the first one to mention the absence of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "I hope that the others are all right," he muttered through a mouthful blanquette de veau.

"I'm sure they're doing fine on their own," responded Luna with her typical absent expression on her face, as she swallowed a bite of baguette coated amply with butter. However, as if to belie her words, an owl swept through the open window, and plopped a copy of the _Evening Prophet_ perilously close to Bill's glass of wine.

After he had paid it for the delivery, it soared out of the window once more, and he opened it, and started to read the headlines, although his spouse insisted that it was impolite to do so at the table. He wished that he had not done so when he read in bold font: **Undesirable Number One Breaks Into Gringotts High Security Vault**.

Apparently, he mused darkly, Harry had interpreted his remark about it being safer to break into Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin as endorsement of such a notion, or else had not listened to a word Bill had said, which was personally what he would have put his money on, if he had been a betting man. Aloud, he complained, burying his head in his palms, "Why the heck do I even bother talking when nobody ever listens to a word that emerges from my mouth, even when I do know what I'm yammering on about, huh? There's a mystery to rival 'What happens when we die' or 'Why do I have to pay more taxes than all the richest magical families in Britain put together', or 'What is the secret recipe for Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans'?"

"And men claim zat us women are too dramatic when zey make comments like zat." Fleur rolled her eyes. "I listen to you, even when you get like zis. Now, share with me why you feel so hard-done-by."

"See for yourself. I can't say it aloud." Bill shoved the newspaper across the table at her, and Dean and Luna leant over to read the headline that had distressed him over her shoulder. While he watched the disbelief mount on their faces, he felt his despair levels rise. If Harry and the others had attempted to rob something from a high security vault, then they were as good as dead, and they would die a very unpleasant death, and, if it had been a vault Bill had laid protective enchantments upon, that would make him responsible for their deaths…God damn it, why had the three kids decided it was a brilliant idea to become burglars when they were in the middle of a war against You-Know-Who? Well, he could just add that to the kilometer-long list of things he did not comprehend, and most likely, never would while he remained semi-sane.

"I don't believe this." Dean was the first to react, glaring contemptuously down at the article. "I mean, this is the same paper that's been trying to convince everyone that Harry murdered Professor Dumbledore, for Merlin's sake."

"I hope you're right," sighed Bill, "but, if it is true, they'll be lucky if they're still breathing at the moment. If they broke into a high security vault, it won't be getting into it that will be the problem, it will be escaping from it, because if anyone that is not a Gringotts goblin, and that includes Griphook, as he is no longer employed there, attempts to enter a vault, it will admit them, yes, but as soon as they enter, it will seal itself upon them forever, and everything they touch multiplies every time they touch it, and if it is a high security vault, the number of copies that are made increases more each time one of the worthless multiplicities is touched. Eventually, you'll be suffocated under the weight of a valueless treasure." His lips twisted. "Nobody can claim that the goblins don't have a knack for irony. The best we can do is pray that whoever put the spells on that vault that they broke into had forgotten to have their morning cup of coffee, and therefore, did substandard spellwork."

"If anyone can break out of a Gringotts high security vault, it's Harry, Ron, and Hermione," Luna contributed placidly, returning to her baguette. "Daddy has always said that the _Daily and Evening Prophet_ are dreadful papers, though, and I agree with him wholeheartedly. We should get our news from a reliable source, like _Potterwatch_."

"Very well, then, the people have spoken." Bill strode over to the radio, and flipped around until he hit upon the right password, and _Potterwatch _flooded the kitchen.

"And now, we're going to go over to Romulus for our popular feature 'Pals of Potter'," Lee Jordan was announcing when he switched on the wireless.

"Thank you, River," the radio Remus commenced. "Well, we here at _Potterwatch_ have it on high authority that this morning, Harry Potter managed to break into the Lestrange vault at Gringotts with his two erstwhile companions, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Fortunately, Harry and his friends were able to escape from the vault―"

"What?" Bill dropped his fork, and lurched across the kitchen to ascertain that the radio was not malfunctioning. It wasn't, which meant that he must be going deaf, or possibly schizophrenic…

"Be quiet, I'm trying to learn what 'as 'appened," Fleur hissed at him, as he slipped back into his chair. Well, since he could hear her perfectly fine, that implied that he was not going deaf, which just left schizophrenic.

His delusion, or hallucination, continued, as "Romulus" rambled on, "And, luckily, Potter and his comrades were also able to evade a knot of enraged Gringotts goblins on the back of one of the dragons that Gringotts utilizes to guard high security vaults. Whether or not Potter, Weasley, and Granger can continue to survive on the back of a deadly beast, such as a dragon, and where they have gone to next remains a mystery to us at _Potterwatch_ at the time. If any of Potters friends have heard anything about where he is now, we urge them to contact us."

"Thanks for that magnificent newscast, Romulus," Lee finished. "Well, listeners, that brings us to the tragic end of another _Potterwatch._ You can be sure that we will be back no matter what, just keep twiddling with those dials around this time at night. The next password will be 'dragon.'"

"And remember now, kids," cut in Fred's voice. "Keep each other safe, and keep the faith, and race with destiny. It's fun, I swear."

"Shut up, Rodent," Lee snarled, as Dean chuckled.

"I told you already, you brainless lump, that I'm not 'Rodent', I'm 'Rapier'!" retorted Fred. "How many times must I tell you that? Lord, when the rest of us drank from the fountain of knowledge you clearly gargled, instead, which explains your current inability to wrap your peanut-sized mind around the fact that I'm not called 'Rodent', but rather 'Rapier.'"

"Look, Rodent, none of our listeners give a rodent's dropping about this rot, so we're out now," snorted Lee, before the broadcast went static, and Bill waved his wand at the wireless to switch it off once more.

"Well, there you have it, kiddos, right from on high on a stone tablet," Bill educated them, digging his fork into his now lukewarm supper.

"At least 'Arry's alive, zat's all zat matters," murmured his wife.

"I hope that Harry and the others achieved their objective, whatever it was," observed Dean.

"Me too," added Luna in a whisper.

"There's nothing we can do now, either way." Bill shrugged, and, after that, nobody had anything else to establish, and so the four of them ate silently, staring out the window at the dying sun that was staining the sky outside blood red in its final, hopeless battle against the night that would soon conquer it entirely, enshrouding them all in a veil of deepest night. As this thought intruded upon his mind, Bill shuddered, because somehow the idea was not nearly as comforting as he had intended it to be, since he could not banish the sense that he and the rest of the Order were the sun putting up a last, valiant, and ultimately fruitless struggle…

It transpired that he was wrong in this assessment, because Luna and Bill were just setting the supper table while Dean poured the drinks, and Fleur completed the finishing touches on her typical dinner masterpiece when suddenly Luna screamed, and dropped the cutlery she was carrying on the floor with a clatter.

"What's troubling you?" Bill arched an eyebrow at her, as he knelt to aid her in scooping up the fallen silverware. "Did a Nargle bite you, or something?"

"Nargles don't bite," she reminded him, accepting the utensils he handed her with a nod of gratitude, and dumping them in a pile back upon the table, "they just sail into your mind, and fog it up."

"Right." Bill nodded, knowing he would forget this tidbit on yet another nonexistent, imaginary magical creature.

"Anyway, it wasn't a Nargle that made me scream," Luna resumed, in her customary dreamy manner, as she withdrew what looked like a Galleon from the pocket of her robes. "It was this. I've kept it in my pocket ever since I was kidnapped, and now Neville's signaled me, which means that Harry, Ron, and Hermione have shown up at Hogwarts, and we're going to put up a fight. We're going to free the school from the grip of the Death Eaters at last, and that means that I've got to go help them."

For a long moment, Bill scrutinized the slender, wisplike blonde girl before him. She was underage― his sister's age, for heaven's sake― and she shouldn't be involved in a life or death war against the Death Eaters, but, after all, You-Know-Who's lackeys had already involved her when they had abducted her, and imprisoned her in Malfoy Manor. Besides, if she had survived that, she deserved the chance to fight against them. Therefore, all he said in the end was, "The die has been cast, in that case. We're accompanying you. You'll be grateful for the assistance of full-grown wizards, I imagine."

"Of course we're accompanying you, Luna, zat much goes without saying." Fleur had surged into action, rummaging in the refrigerator, and the cabinets. "'Ere we go, zen, we'll 'ave to eat dinner on ze run, because we don't want to be 'ungry when we are dueling with ze Death Eaters, do we? But we mustn't consume too much, or else we shall get ze most awful cramps in ze middle of ze battle. Ah, yes, yogurt for calcium, a packet of nuts for protein, and fruit for fiber." With that, she sent one each of the aforementioned foods gliding through the air in their directions.

"Now I really wish I had a wand," grumbled Dean, slitting open his pack of nuts with his teeth, and gobbling them up.

"Don't worry," Luna soothed, "I'll Disarm someone, and give their wand to you."

Before Dean could reply, Bill hurried over to the desk in the next room, and retrieved several pieces of parchment and a quill, explaining, "I need to let other people know what we're up to, so that they can join us in our endeavor to rid the world of evil."

"You don't need to bother writing to your parents," Luna informed him, "as Ginny will have her Galleon on her, and she will know that it is time to fight, and your twin brothers will probably also have their coins on them, so they'll probably also have figured it out, and, no doubt, one of them will tell your parents what is occurring."

"You're probably correct about that," he conceded, tossing the piece of parchment he had started to address to his mum and dad into the trash, and beginning to scribble away on another, "but I need to owl Louis, and update him on what's happened, because he might be able to help us. I certainly wouldn't mind having him by my side in a duel."

He was mid-way through his urgent note when he realized to his chagrin that he did not know where to tell Louis to go to meet them, and he glanced somewhat sheepishly up at the blonde teenaged girl. "Luna, where exactly should we head to when we go to join Harry and the others? We can't Apparate into Hogwarts…"

"No," she confirmed with her usual detachment, "but we can Apparate into the Hog's Head, where there is a secret passageway in the back that will transport us into the school itself."

"Great." He bobbed his head in understanding. "Then, I'll tell Louis to Apparate to the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade, England, if he can manage it, and then we'll be off to do or die. Preferably, the first, though, and not the second. Let's leave the dying to the Death Eaters."

"Zat seems like a brilliant strategy to me. Napoleon would 'ave 'ad nothing on you if you had lived during 'is time, zat's for certain," Fleur agreed, as he completed his letter, attached it to Nekhebet's leg, and sent her off with orders to find Louis, and deliver the note to him as quickly as possible, before they all Disapparated into Hog's Head, Luna Side-Apparating with the help of Fleur, as she had not been taught how to Apparate by herself by the time she had been removed from school by the Death Eaters.


	72. Chapter 72

The Battle Begins

When they Apparated into the grubby, sawdust-strewn bar that must have been the Hog's Head, a man with a long, stringy, wire-gray hair and beard whose eyes were a piercing, oddly familiar blue behind filthy spectacles, stomped over to them, and grunted, "What are you doing here, huh?"

Apparently, he was the proprietor of this derelict bar. Before any of them could answer, the barman's azure eyes alighted on Luna, and he growled, "Oh, they're with you, then. Well, lead them upstairs, in that case."

Serenely, Luna directed them behind the counter, and through a doorway, which led to a rickety wooden staircase. Whirling about as she rested her foot on the first step, she addressed the pub owner calmly, "Aberforth, there will probably be more people Apparating or Flooing here tonight, so please show them upstairs to the passageway when they show up."

"Neville already told me that," the barman informed her gruffly. "I hope you kids aren't putting up a final battle over there at the school, because that will merely result in a ton of needless deaths."

With that last grim comment, he went back over to the counter, and resumed his task of cleaning his tankards, something that only seemed to serve to make the vessels dirtier due to the fact that the rag he was employing to clean them was filthy, as Bill, Fleur, and Dean followed Luna up the flight of stairs. The steps opened onto a sitting room with a threadbare carpet, and a tiny fireplace above which an oil painting of a young girl had been swung forward to reveal an entrance to a tunnel that presumably would allow them to crawl up to Hogwarts.

"You two should go on ahead," Bill decided, pushing Dean and Luna lightly forward. "We'll be there in a little while—I just want to ascertain that Mum and Dad can find their way up."

The pair of teenagers nodded, and, with the tenacity of youth, agilely launched themselves up the wall, and into the secret passageway. Within a handful of seconds, they had disappeared into the darkness that engulfed the tunnel.

Silently, Bill and Fleur munched their way through the dinner she had hastily packed for them. Both of them ate not so much of out hunger, but out of a compulsion to do something—anything, no matter how stupid, or pointless. The waiting, he thought morbidly, as he slurped up the remnants of his yogurt, was causing his mind to go around the twist, which might lead him to perform some heroic stunts in the upcoming battle before the Death Eaters finally did away with him. Ah, well, at least Fleur would have a medal to remember him by on the off-chance that they won...Fortunately for his remaining sanity, however, they were not obliged to wait too long, because just as they completed their meals, the barman's shouts could be heard issuing from the floor below.

"What in the world does this establishment look like it is to you? Does it in any manner resemble a bloody railway station? No, you say. Well, that's 'cause it ain't one, surprisingly enough, which means that it would be great if you guys stopped Apparating into my pub, and let me sleep, for Merlin's sake!"

Barely thirty seconds after the barman's gripes assaulted their ears, Bill and his wife spotted the dreadful duo, Lee Jordan, a pretty Asian girl, and a hooded youth with a feminine figure that he recognized but could not positively identify in the flickering candlelight, dart up the staircase into the living room, racing toward the tunnel that afforded them access to the school.

"Did you explain to Mum and Dad what's happening?" demanded Bill, flinging out a hand to halt one of the terror twins—he could not discern which, because of the inadequate lighting—as the knot of adolescents dashed past him and Fleur.

"Yeah," responded the twin he had grabbed, "I filled them in on what was occurring as soon as I received the message myself. In fact, I reckon that they'll be over here in a few moments at maximum."

"Do you and your beauteous bride want to accompany us up to Hogwarts now?" the other twin added, as the five teenagers hurried over to the secret passageway, and clambered inside it.

"No, thank you," Bill called after them as their shapes receded into oblivion in the blackness of the tunnel, something that chilled the marrow in his bones more than it ought to have. "As we said to Dean and Luna, we'll await Mum and Dad's arrival before we join the fray!"

As the dreadful duo had stated, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley did indeed know that the final battle against You-Know-Who and his minions was about to commence, and, again as the twins told him, it was perhaps five minutes later when his parents charged up the stairwell, with Remus on their heels, breathing heavily.

"Excellent, you're here at last," remarked Bill briskly, as the three panting adults arrived in the room along with him and his spouse. "Let's get a move on, shall we?"

His companions did not deign to squander the breath necessary to reply as they struggled, with far more difficulty than the teens had displayed, to mount the fireplace and the wall, and then hauled themselves into the tunnel. To his relief, it transpired that his initial assumption about the pathway up to the school being a narrow, dark, and claustrophobia-inducing one was essentially invalid. In fact, once they had crawled a few meters, there was a set of smooth stone steps before them that they descended rapidly. As they headed downstairs, Bill determined that this most likely had been the juncture where those he had watched travel this path had disappeared entirely from view.

In addition to being wider and taller than he had figured, the passageway was better lit than he had anticipated. Actually, it was more thoroughly illuminated than the sitting room they had just left, not that that was a grand achievement, as most areas on the globe were, but it was still something. The illumination was provided by brass lamps that lined the stone walls, and as they strode along the earthen floor that had been worn into a trail because many feet had traversed over it in the exact same locations, their shadows rippled eerily against the walls, although at least they were not tripping, and stumbling, and risking life and limb prior to the onset of the battle.

When they had been walking along for approximately ten minutes, the passageway began to slope upwards again, and, then, to Bill's displeasure, as he had never been a fan of hiking, the incline became even steeper, as though they were crossing an underground mountain. Luckily for his legs, which were protesting this harsh treatment vehemently, they did not have to endure this terrain for long, and the tunnel leveled itself out once more, to his inner applause.

A moment or so after the passageway had flattened itself out again, they rounded a bend, and climbed up another short flight of steps identical to the one they had descended at the opening of the passage in the Hog's Head, and exited through a portrait. When he performed a cursory scan of the room they had just entered, Bill had the instantaneous, overwhelming impression that they had somehow been transported to another planet in a distant galaxy, rather than to Hogwarts. Granted, he had not been in the school for years, and so it might have changed since he had seen it last, or he might have forgotten some of the details of the place, but it could not have altered this drastically, and surely, he would have recollected a chamber this...bizarre.

Now that he considered the matter, he supposed he might not actually have been standing in a chamber, but rather a particularly sumptuous tree-house, or a massive ship's cabin. Hammocks in every shade of the rainbow hung from the vaulted ceiling as well as from a balcony that spanned around the dark-wood paneled and windowless walls, which were decked out in vibrant tapestries emblazoned with the colors and the symbols of every House except Slytherin. To contribute to the disarrayed decoration, bulging bookcases and a couple of broomsticks were propped against the walls between the hangings.

However, the confusion of the room itself was nothing compared to the chaos its current inhabitants were in. Everywhere he looked, Bill saw pupils screaming instructions at each other, or leaning their heads together to concoct some scheme or other. Undeniably, the chamber had reached its carrying capacity, yet, when he pivoted to gaze behind him, Kingsley, a burly young man that resembled a grown Oliver Wood, and three young women with their hair drawn into taut ponytails who appeared to be eighteen or nineteen, emerged from the portrait entranceway.

"Where should we go to receive our assignments?" inquired Kingsley in his typical rumble which was barely audible due to the mayhem about them, as he caught sight of Bill, Fleur, Remus, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and sidled up to them.

Bill was about to respond that, having just arrived here themselves, they had no notion of where to head, either, when quiet fell over his surroundings as someone toppled down the staircase that presumably fed into the main castle, and he spun about to discover whom had fallen, and why everybody else was so concerned by it. His bewilderment died when he saw that it was Harry who had crashed down the steps.

Remus shoved his way through the hordes to aid the boy in regaining his feet. As he righted Harry, he asked, "What's happening?"

"Voldemort's on his way!" shouted Harry, his words tumbling on top of each other, as everyone bent forward in a collective desire to hear him more clearly. "They're barricading the school, and Snape's run for it!"

Rather than alleviating the questions upon every being's lips, this response increased them. Voicing everyone's feelings, George hollered into the room, which was starting to fill with noise again as people began whispering their theories about the madness currently enshrouding the castle to their neighbors, "What first, Harry?"

"They're evacuating the younger kids," answered Harry, "and everyone is meeting in the Great Hall to get organized."

Now that they had a direction, the crowd surged abruptly into action, and, with the velocity of a tsunami, hurried out of the chamber, up the steps to the main castle, and down to the Great Hall. Not wishing to lose his wife in the tide, Bill clasped her hand, and added them both to the flow. As he jostled along with the rest, he spotted a slender girl with vibrant red hair mount the first step, and Bill frowned at her, because she looked awfully like his sister. No, wait, she was his sister! He opened his mouth to cry out her name, to order her back to Auntie Muriel's, but it wasn't his voice that shrieked:

"Ginerva Molly Weasley!" Obviously, his mum had detected Ginny's presence at the exact second that he had, and, with a strength that would have made many irate bulls envious, she charged through the multitudes, and grabbed her daughter's arm as tightly as a python, effectively preventing her from departing with rest of the people stampeding out of the room.

Taking care not to get trampled and killed accidentally by their own allies, Bill and Fleur wended their way over to Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, whose face was now as scarlet as her locks since she had exerted herself in her efforts to extricate herself from her mother's clasp, as the dreadful duo, Remus, and Mr. Weasley did the same.

"Just what are you doing here, young lady?" screamed Mrs. Weasley as Bill and his spouse arrived on the scene along with Remus and Mr. Weasley.

"I should think that would be apparent to anyone with a functioning eye or brain," snapped Ginny, brown eyes ablaze, as she writhed like a fish trapped on land in an attempt to shake off her mum. "I'm fighting with everyone else!"

"You'll do no such thing!"

"I'll do anything I want, and nobody can stop me!"

"You're mistaken, Ginerva, for I'm your mother, and I can, and will, stop you," Mrs. Weasley snarled.

"Only if I let you, and I won't," her child retorted. "For once, you'll have to allow one of your kids to live their own life, instead of the one you want them to live."

"If you do what you want to do, it could be the last thing you do, as it could end in your death—"

"Yeah, Mum, that's just it, _my_ death, not yours, and I should be able to decide it, not you," interjected Ginny, and for a second, Bill did not know who he sided with. Yes, he desired nothing more than to have his baby sister safely ensconced at Auntie Muriel's, so that if he perished in the struggle, at least she would still be alive to enjoy the new, free world, meaning that he would not have died in vain. Then again, if he was fighting to liberate people, didn't he have to permit her to defend her beliefs? Besides, on a purely practical note, they really could benefit from all the assistance they could get.

"You're underage, so you're not mature enough to understand the full implications of your actions, Ginerva," her mother dismissed this with a wild laugh, and, despite her hysteria, Bill thought she had a point. In fact, he was now starting to feel guilty about taking Luna and Dean here. They were underage, as well, and they were not really old enough to understand that their deaths, like everybody else's, would be permanent.

"I don't care what you say, I'm fighting," argued Ginny, still twisting about, trying to shake off her mum's grasp.

"You're underage!" Mrs. Weasley exploded, repeating herself. "I won't permit it. The boys, yes, but you, you've got to go home!"

"I won't!" Calling on what must have been her last reserve of raw energy, Ginny yanked her arm out of her mother's grip, her mane of hair flying out behind her like a crimson kite, as Harry, who, apparently, had not gone down to the Great Hall with everybody else, joined the assembly watching this drama unfold with bated breath. She continued, "I'm in Dumbledore's Army—"

"A teenagers' gang," scoffed her mum.

This must have insulted Fred, as he was a member of it. "A teenagers' gang that's about to take him on, which no one else has dared to do," he reminded her, a fire in his tone.

"She's sixteen!" seethed Mrs. Weasley, glaring at him and George now. "She's not old enough! What were you two thinking when you brought her with you?"

For the first time in their lives, the dreadful duo seemed remorseful, and Bill decided that now was an excellent time to intercede before the entire Weasley clan killed itself, or before they missed the battle completely. "Mum's right, Ginny," he informed her gently. "You can't do this. Everyone underage will have to leave. It's only right." Great, he realized as soon as the words popped out of his mouth, now he would have to find Dean and Luna before the battle commenced, and tell them to return to Shell Cottage.

"I can't go home!" she insisted, tears of fury shining in her eyes as she whirled about to face him. "My whole family is here. I can't stand waiting there alone, and not knowing, and—"

Her gaze wandered from her brother's, and focused beseechingly upon someone else. Bill cast about him to see whose opinion she was searching for, and discovered, with a sinking feeling, that her eyes were riveted on Harry's. This must be how it felt to be a father, he imagined, when you had the painful realization one day that you were not the most important male in your daughter's life, which was why he and Fleur would only have sons, so he didn't have to experience this agony more than once in his lifetime. But they didn't have time for this now, and, God, if Harry permitted her to stay, and she died, if You-Know-Who didn't murder him, then Bill would, assuming, of course, that he survived himself.

Luckily, though, Harry shook his head at Ginny, and she capitulated, at last. "Fine, I'll say goodbye now, then, and—"

The precise terms of her surrender were chopped off by a scuffling sound followed in quick succession by a thump, as someone else clambered out of the tunnel, overbalanced, and toppled over. When he turned to learn who the newcomer was, Bill saw something that prompted him to contemplate if his eyes had chosen to betray him now, and cease working properly. According to Bill's most likely malfunctioning eyes, Percy was tugging himself to his feet with the aid of a nearby chair, his horn-rimmed glasses lopsided from his fall.

Thanks to his askew spectacles, Percy had not noticed that only his family, Harry, and Remus remained in the room, as he fretted, demonstrating his typical obsession with punctuality, "Am I too late? Has it started? I only just found out, so I—I—"

At this point, he straightened his glasses, and registered the fact that he was essentially alone with the family that he had been estranged from for the past two years, and, now that it had recovered from the shock of meeting Percy here, Bill's heart was hardening against his brother. An ice that consisted of the accusations Percy had flung at their dad, of the flat door Percy had slammed on his mother and him, of the sweaters Percy had sent back to his mother, and of the Christmas visit to the Burrow with Scrimgeour last Christmas, had solidified between them. Glancing to his left and right, he saw that cold expressions were etched upon the faces of his father, sister, and brothers, and that only his mum was gazing at her lost son with any warmth.

To his gratitude, his wife chose to insert herself into the exchange, or awkward lack thereof, at this point, and asked Remus in a far louder voice than was strictly necessary, "So, 'ow is leetle Teddy?"

For a moment, Remus stared at her as if she had abruptly taken leave of her senses, as the tension between the Weasleys intensified, and Bill felt his jaw clench painfully, and his spine stiffen. Then, Remus replied with equal volume, "Oh, yes, he's fine. Yes, Tonks is with him at her mother's. Here, I've got a picture!"

As Remus withdrew a photograph from inside his robes to show to Fleur and Harry, Percy, who must have felt the chill emanating from the rest of his family, finally spoke again. Well, roared, actually.

"I was a fool!" he yelled, causing Bill to leap into the air, and almost smash his spouse's foot. "I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a—a—" Percy sputtered into silence when he failed to uncover any more insulting epithets for himself, despite his extensive vocabulary.

"Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron," Fred prompted, eager to be of help for once.

Percy gulped, and then admitted, "Yes, I was!"

When he saw how much it had cost him to acknowledge this, Bill no longer wanted to hear another word. Enough hearts had been wrenched apart without Percy splitting his now. It was time to forgive and move on, because life was far too short for bitterness, especially when they could all be dead in an hour or two. Maybe, Fred harbored similar sentiments, for he offered his hand to Percy, and declared, "Well, you can't say fairer than that."

Before Percy could shake hands with his younger brother, a wailing Mrs. Weasley had lurched forward, shoved Fred aside, and enfolded her third child into a rib-crushing, and lung-expelling embrace. While he patted her on the back with all the energy he could muster with no oxygen in his chest, Percy locked his eyes, which were filled with tears, on their father, and panted, "I'm sorry, Dad."

Here, Bill pinched himself, figuring that he must be dreaming, for Percy had not addressed their dad in such a fashion since he was about seven-years-old. Mr. Weasley must have been suffering from an equivalent dose of astonishment, because he blinked dazedly, then raced forward, and wrapped his arms around his prodigal son, as well.

"What made you see sense, Perce?" George wanted to know, verbalizing the question that no doubt was spiraling about in the mind's of everyone present, as it was in Bill's.

"It's been coming on for awhile," mumbled Percy, mopping his eyes under his glasses with the cuff of his traveling cloak, as his mother and father released him. Shuddering, he went on, "But I had to find a way out, and it's not easy at the Ministry. They're imprisoning traitors there all the time. I managed to make contact with Aberforth, and he tipped me off ten minutes ago that Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I am."

"Well, we do look to our prefects to take lead at times such as these." George mimicked Percy's most pompous tone flawlessly. Grabbing a hold of his twin, and Bill, and setting off toward the stairwell with Fleur and Percy trailing along in their wake. "Now, let's get upstairs and fight, or all the good Death Eaters will be taken."

"So you're my sister-in-law now?" Percy commented, shaking hands with Fleur as the four of them dashed up the steps toward the main castle, where they could head down to the Great Hall to receive their positions in the imminent clash.

"Ginny!" His mother's razor sharp bark caused Bill, and those who were ascending the flight of stairs with him, to turn around abruptly. When he spun about, he discovered that Ginny had been utilizing the masking effects of the reconciliation to creep upstairs after her siblings and Fleur.

A deflated Ginny trudged back down the stairwell, and rejoined her parents and Remus. "Molly, how about this," proposed Remus as the defeated girl reached them. "Why doesn't Ginny stay here? Then, at least she'll be on the scene, and know what's going on, but she won't be in the middle of the fighting."

"I—" protested Mrs. Weasley, but her husband cut across her firmly.

"That's a good idea. Ginny, you stay in this room. Do you hear me?"

Sighing, Ginny nodded, and sank into a hammock. Confident that his sister would now be out of any immediate peril, Bill mumbled to those alongside him, "Hurry. The rest of the school must surely be in the Great Hall by now, and we don't want to be lectured for lateness in front of everyone. That would be a fate worse than death."

"I don't know about that," Fred disagreed, as they continued upwards. "I rather miss McGonagall scolding me. Don't you, George?"

"More than words could ever explain," affirmed George, as they reached they reached the landing, and exited the chamber. "It gives you a warm, cozy feeling inside, because it reminds you that some things will never change."

"And everyone needs a constant in their universe," concluded Fred, while they all bustled down the corridor, and toward the nearest staircase that would take them to the first floor, where the Great Hall was.

"I apologize for not attending your wedding," Percy muttered to Bill and Fleur, as they arrived at the stairwell, and began to descend.

"Don't worry about it. If you pay for us to vacation in the Mediterranean every winter for the next ten years, we'll call it even." He grinned at his brother to let him know that he was jesting.

"Marriage, it seems, has not forced you to mature," observed Percy dryly. As he finished this remark, they reached the ground floor, and directed their feet toward the Great Hall, where they could hear McGonagall's voice echoing as it reverberated off the towering enchanted ceiling.

When they entered, they were greeted with the sight of the four lengthy wooden tables teeming with disheveled students, the fortunate ones attired in traveling cloaks, and the less so bundled up in dressing gowns, whose anxious eyes were fixated on McGonagall, who was speaking from a raised platform erected at the front of the Hall.

"Due to the fact that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has set his sights upon capturing this institution, it is necessary that our pupils evacuate the premises as soon as possible via the Hog's Head," she was announcing to the silent, terrified Hall, as Bill, Fleur, Percy, and the twins crept along the wall, so that they could stand by the rest of the Order members, and the remaining staff. "The evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madam Promfery. Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point."

Most of the students appeared petrified, Bill thought, as he arrived at the front of the Hall, but one Hufflepuff lad who appeared to be roughly seventeen, rose, puffed out his chest, and demanded, "And what if we want to stay and fight?"

That one question was all that was required to rally the student body of Hogwarts, it transpired, for a smattering of applause ensued, and the outspoken boy stood taller, pride etched on his every feature.

"If you are of age, you may stay," McGonagall ruled. This was met with mixed emotions from the pupils, some of whom were overage, and, therefore, relieved that they would be able to participate in the combat ahead, but a majority weren't, and they were angered about being deprived of this opportunity to defend their second home.

"What about our things?" shouted a slight, dark-haired girl at the Ravenclaw table over the bedlam that had followed McGonagall's pronouncement, as everyone mumbled to their neighbors their opinion about only those who were overage being allowed to remain behind to fight the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who. "Our trunks? Our owls?"

"We have no time to collect possessions," McGonagall educated her briskly. "The important thing is to get you out of here safely."

"Where's Professor Snape?" called a Slytherin girl, whose eyes were suspicious slits, and whose arms were folded across her chest.

"He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk," McGonagall established, her tone as crisp as decaying autumn leaves. She ignored the cheers and whistles of exaltation that erupted from the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw tables, and the boos that sounded from the Slytherin one, as she resumed, "We have already placed protection around the castle, but it is unlikely to hold for very long, unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects—"

However, her final directive was drowned out when a different, more menacing, voice resounded throughout the Hall. It was high, cold, and clear, seeming to issue from the stone walls themselves, and although he had never heard it before in his lifetime, and prayed he would never have cause to listen to it again, Bill knew that it had to be You-Know-Who, because nobody else would be so out of touch with their humanity as to sound like this. Even Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape combined would have sounded like a sultry July day when compared to this voice.

"I know that you are preparing to fight," You-Know-Who drawled, as the students whimpered and clutched at their friends, seeking comfort in each other, as they glanced about, trying vainly to detect the source of the sound. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

As Bill rolled his eyes at such a blatantly false proclamation, silence filled the Great Hall, and it was so absolute that nobody seemed to be inhaling or exhaling.

"Give me Harry Potter." You-Know-Who's words were silky now. "Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight."

The voice died away as abruptly as it had commenced, leaving behind a scene as quiet as a grave. Every head swiveled to regard Harry, who had slipped into the chamber in the middle of McGonagall's speech, but not one person made any movement to seize him. Then, an ugly Slytherin girl with a pug-face jumped up, and bawled, as if nobody else had noticed such a fact, "But he's here! Potter's there! Someone grab him!"

"Coward," Bill snorted to his wife, who smirked.

At the Slytherin's words, there was indeed a burst of motion, but not of the sort that she had expected, for all the Gryffindors stood as one unit, and drew their wands on her. Catching the wave, the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws also rose, and pointed their wands at her, showing their support for Harry.

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson. You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch," McGonagall ordered. "The rest of your House will follow."

With a grinding of benches, the Slytherins trooped out of the Great Hall behind Argus Flich. Slowly, at McGonagall's command, the three other tables were emptied. Well, perhaps, emptied was the wrong word, Bill corrected himself, since a number of older Ravenclaws who must have been overage, chose to stay seated, and even more overage Hufflepuffs remained where they were. Where Potter devotion was at its most rabid levels, in the Gryffindor House, it wasn't just the overage pupils that remained stationary. In fact, half of the Gryffindors stayed in their chairs, which forced McGonagall, as their Head of House, to march over to them, and compel, with shouts and threats, those who were obviously underage, to leave the Hall after the Hufflepuffs who were not of age, while Kingsley took her place at the platform, and began to lay out the tactics for the impending battle.

"We've only got a half hour until midnight!" Kingsley announced, glancing around at everyone in turn to ensure that he had everybody's undivided attention. "A battle plan has been agreed upon between the teachers, and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers― Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and Gryffindor, respectively― where they'll have a good overview in addition to excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile, Remus―" he indicated the man he spoke of for the benefit of the students who were allowed to stay behind― "Arthur"― this time he gestured at Mr. Weasley― "and I will take groups into the grounds. We'll need somebody to organize defense of the entrances of the passageways into the school―"

"That sounds like a job for us," Fred volunteered, his hand shooting into the air enthusiastically, as his clone bobbed his head in energetic confirmation.

"All right." Kingsley nodded his approval. "Now, it's time to divide up the troops!"

Before anything more could be accomplished, however, McGonagall barked, "Potter, aren't you supposed to be looking for something?" As Harry dashed out of the Great Hall, obviously having just been reminded of something crucial he must do, she added less sharply, "I will arrange everyone into groups, if that is fine by you, Shaklebolt."

At Kingsley's nod, she swept about the Hall, directing everyone into one of the groups under the leadership of herself, Sprout, Flitwick, Kingsely, Mr. Weasley, and the dreadful duo. Personally, Bill felt tremendous amounts of sympathy for anybody placed in the last squadron. Within three minutes, McGonagall had reached Bill, Fleur, and Percy.

"You." She jabbed her finger at Fleur. "You'll go with Flitwick to the Ravenclaw Tower." As Fleur strode off to join Flitwick's squad, McGonagall found herself facing Percy, and, for an instant, she looked astounded to meet him here, but she recovered readily enough, and merely pointed toward Sprout's group. "Weasley, you'll go up to the Astronomy Tower with Sprout." When Percy had bustled off with his typical purposeful expression firmly in place, she pointed at Bill. "Other Weasley, you'll come with me."

Obediently, Bill stepped over to join her group in the corner of the Hall where they were waiting for her to finish separating everyone. Finally, when everybody had been given an assignment, McGonagall came over to them, and led them through the entrance hall which was still teeming with evacuating pupils, up to the Gryffindor Tower, where she arrayed them all, like archers in a medieval palace of yore, beside the windows in the common room, and in the dormitories. Bill was stationed in the fifth year boy dormitory along with a seventh-year Gryffindor girl named Lavender Brown, and a seventh-year female Ravenclaw who introduced herself as Padma Patil.

When they got into position, there was still fifteen minutes left until midnight, and Bill was positive that he would go certifiably insane if he had to spend that time in silence, contemplating all the manners in which he and those he held dear could meet gruesome ends in the immediate future. Fortunately, he was distracted from envisioning Ron being blasted to smithereens by Padma Patil, who murmured, "So this is the view I would have had if I had been made a Gryffindor along with my twin sister. I must say, I do prefer the view from the Ravenclaw Tower, although I haven't been able to enjoy it for awhile."

"I haven't spent any time in my House for awhile, either," Lavender reminded her. This thought did not appear to be a cheery one for either of the teenage girls, for Padma went on with a determined optimism.

"And this is the dorm I would have slept in if I were in Gryffindor."

"And if you were a boy," Lavender giggled, releasing her nerves, no doubt.

"Yes, if I were a boy," conceded Padma. "Once again, though, I do prefer the Ravenclaw dorms."

"You only say that because you're in a boys' dormitory," debated Lavender.

"The boys and girls dorms are mirror images of each other," Bill stated, grinning.

"Yeah, but ours are loads neater, and they smell much better." Lavender emitted another shrill giggle, which was rapidly transformed into a bloodcurdling scream as she gazed down at the grounds beneath them. "Oh, God, I think it's starting!"

Bill checked his watch. "It is midnight."

"God!" Lavender shrieked again, as the three of them leant forward, sticking their wand arms out of the window. As the Death Eaters, looking like a herd of ants from this considerable height, approached them, they let loose with their first strain of curses.

"Locomoter mortis!" Bill shouted, and his target toppled over onto the ground, as stiff as a board. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Lavender's Death Eater keel over, choking on soap bubbles that were issuing copiously from his mouth, Padma's one break into a random, uncontrollable dance, and numerous other foes fall from spells shot from the three towers, as he fixed his wand on another Death Eater, which he transformed into an otter.

He, Lavender, and Padma had each managed to halt one more advancing Death Eater before they saw their adversaries breach their defenses, and enter the school. Before any of them could react to this, they heard McGonagall's holler echoing up the tower, "They've gotten through our defenses! Get downstairs to meet them in hand-to-hand combat!"


	73. Chapter 73

Author's Note: Hopefully I have done a decent job with the battle. I looked through all my HP books, so they I would be familiar with all spells I could have people use, and everything, and I spent all day wrting this chapter, because I had another "excessive heat" day, so I had nothing else I could do, since my best friend didn't have off of school, and I didn't have very many books with me to study for finals. Let me know how it turned out.

Rebel Angels

From above, when he had been securely lodged in the Gryffindor Tower, Bill had felt confident that they had possessed the upper-hand in the fray. However, when he and the rest of McGonagall's troops, as well as those of Sprout and Flitwick, hurtled down the stairwells to the entrance hall to provide their adversaries with the warmest possible welcome, he felt his assurance sail out of him at record speed, leaving him hollow, for it was as plain as the nose on his face that they were outnumbered by a considerable margin, and what was more, half of their ranks was comprised of children, who must be protected as much as possible.

Oh, well, he shrugged mentally, it was the struggle that was important, even if it was a doomed one, and even if they were all destined to die. As he reached this conclusion, he stepped forward to engage three Death Eaters. Normally, he would not have attempted to combat three enemies at once, but since they were so grossly outnumbered he determined that it was his duty to do so.

As he deflected a Stunning Spell from one Death Eater, and fired a retaliatory Swelling Charm at another one, which caused the hexed to tumble onto the marble flagstones under the additional weight of eyes the diameter of supper platters, Bill decided that, as it was doubtful that he would be capable of forcing his opponents to retreat back onto the grounds, it would be prudent to, under the guise of a retreat of his own, draw his remaining pair of Death Eaters out of the entrance hall, away from the children.

While he mounted the first step, Bill was momentarily distracted by the sight of Dean snatching the wand out of the grasp of the Death Eater he had just felled. Merlin, he had forgotten to find Dean and Luna and order them to return to Shell Cottage, and now, blast it, it was too late, because Dean had begun to duel an enemy of his own, and that blonde girl over there, who was shooting a Giggling Hex at a foe, bore an uncanny resemblance to Luna Lovegood. If they died...

He never had an opportunity to complete that guilty sentence in his brain, because a line of burning, scarlet agony flared in his mind. Barely a second later, he pinpointed the source of his anguish as his wrist, and when he glanced down at it, he realized that it was gushing blood, which meant that one of his adversaries had descried his distraction, and exploited it. Worse still, they had exploited it well, since they had currently disabled his wand arm. Obviously, their mother had been a pig.

Once again, the Death Eaters, like vultures, sensed his vulnerability due to his wound, and lurched forward to devour their prey. Fortunately, they were foiled in this endeavor by Professor Flitwick, who had been leaping up the stairs with three opponents of his own, and who had spotted his ally's plight. A jet of mauve streamed from the tip of his wand, and engulfed both of Bill's assailants. Instantly, their faces went blank, and they toppled down the marble staircase, as limp as rag dolls. Another wave of his wand saw Bill's wrist mended perfectly.

"Thanks for saving my life," he hollered at his former Charms master over the din, as he went over to join the short, but powerful wizard in his duel against the trio of Death Eaters.

"Think nothing of it," Flitwick reassured him in his usual squeaky voice, sending the Death Eater nearest him smashing into a marble banister with a casual flick of his wand. "I do love the chance to make certain that my skill at more complex charms is still well-honed."

"You needn't worry about that, as it definitely is." In a surge of vindictiveness, Bill caused one of their two remaining enemy's wrist to bleed profusely, and then took advantage of the other man's preoccupation with his pain to Stun him.

When they gained the top of the stairwell, Bill and Flitwick split up, Flitwick staying on their old Death Eater, and Bill darting over to assist a harried Percy in a duel against no less than five of You-Know-Who's supporters. Despite the fact that the siblings threw their best curses at their adversaries, they were still forced to retreat into a nearby classroom.

Luckily, the altering of the environment sparked a revolution in their fighting strategy, and, acting on an impulse, Bill used his wand to shatter a window as two Death Eaters passed under it, which caused them to howl as the glass sliced them before it hit the floor. This provided Percy with an epiphany, apparently, because he waved his wand, prompting all the books to come pelting off the shelves to whack the masked wizards, and ink bottles to hover over the heads of You-Know-Who's followers, where they dumped out their contents.

Panicking at this unexpected assault, the Death Eaters dropped their wands reflexively, and attempted futilely to shield themselves from the tomes and the inkwells with their arms and their palms. When this had no impact on their inanimate attackers, they jumped out of the broken window, screaming like banshees.

Smirking, Percy sent the empty ink containers back to the desks, and the books back to their cases, remarking, "Since they were foolish enough to surrender their wands, they won't be able to perform a Cushioning Charm, so the impact will kill them, if the shock of the fall itself doesn't accomplish that."

"Brilliant spellwork," whistled Bill, before glancing around the classroom, which was now covered with inks stains, and adding, "Though, I must say, if you are looking for a career in interior design, you might want to enroll in a few more lessons."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Percy straightened his spine haughtily. "People always claimed that you were excellent with fashions, but that's obviously not the case if you can't see that this is the new Brutish Look, which is going to be all the rage if this war doesn't end soon."

For a moment, the two brothers stood there, relishing the second they had together, and then the junior Weasley pivoted, and directed his footsteps toward the door. "We'd better go," he observed, "as we're needed in the fight, and, therefore, we shouldn't dawdle."

"You're right," chuckled Bill, as he followed his sibling out of the room. "After all, what would Hogwarts do without two of its greatest Head Boys to save the day?"

"You'll never grow up, I see." Percy rolled his eyes in exasperation, and the two brothers divided again, as Percy went to join the Hufflepuff boy who had spoken up in the Great Hall and Luna in their duel against the Carrows, and Bill dashed off to aid Lavender and a girl who resembled Padma down to a freckle, but that Lavender called Parvati, in their battle against Bellatrix Lestrange, who currently held the upper-hand in the confrontation. Indeed, she was such a powerful witch that, despite the addition of a full-grown wizard, and despite the fact that she was laughing maniacally, that she compelled the three of them to move steadily backwards down the corridor. Just as they rounded the corner, they collided rather painfully with somebody who would have accidentally knocked Lavender over if Bill had not snatched her arm and steadied her at the last second.

"Do you look where you're going, you abysmal fools!" The chiding voice was undeniably McGonagall's. Perhaps she was even more irascible than usual because she was fighting four beings at once, and was doing as decent a job as anyone could expect. "Or you'll murder your own allies!"

"You were walking backwards, too, Professor," protested Parvati, firing a Stinging Hex at Bellatrix, who deflected it with a laugh, and an indolent twitch of her wand.

"Be quiet, Miss Patil," McGonagall snarled, transforming one of her assailants into a badger, who instantly scuttled away from the scene, emitting terrified noises oddly reminiscent of a baby's wailing.

"But she is right, you know, and, besides, we were going down this hallway first," reasoned Bill, as he copied her worthy example, and transfigured the face of one of her opponent's into a sea urchin.

"That's enough, Weasley," she snapped, as she shoved Parvati and Lavender out of her way, and commenced dueling with Bellatrix. "I don't have time for this nonsensical squabbling now."

Before the two witches could begin fighting in earnest, however, You-Know-Who's voice emerged from the cracks in the walls again, and commanded with its typical icy, disembodied, soulless authority, "Death Eaters, step back from those your are dueling with, for they are not really your enemies, after all."

Bellatrix paused, and then complied, with an expression of pure ardor for the speaker on her every feature. The other two Death Eaters mirrored her. When his adversaries stepped down, Bill considered hexing them into oblivion, but decided that would be unchivalrous. However, it transpired that McGonagall did not have similar compunctions, for she coolly took advantage of the opportunity to Conjure a flock of canaries to besiege one Death Eater, who fled with helpless cries for mercy, toppling down the closest flight of steps, because he could not spot where he was headed in the mass of yellow feathers and pecking beaks, and transformed a second Death Eater into a snail.

"You'll regret this, Minerva McGonagall," Bellatrix leered, before stalking away. "Our revenge will be swift and agonizing, as always."

As soon as Bellatrix had stormed away from them, You-Know-Who's voice could be heard addressing them through the stones once more, "You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery."

"You wouldn't know courage if it slapped you upside the head," snorted McGonagall, and Bill smiled at her disdain, as Lavender and Parvati giggled.

"Yet you have sustained heavy losses," You-Know-Who continued, his tone implying that he deemed this extremely regrettable, rather than absolutely delightful, as he doubtlessly did. "If you continue to resist me, you will all die, once by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss, and a waste."

"Where is my handkerchief?" Parvati wrung her hands in mock distress, and the two girls burst into another fit of hysterical giggles, which seemed to be what they did with their lives. "His grief is simply contagious."

"Lord Voldemort is merciful." You-Know-Who employed another oxymoron for the benefit of his audience. "I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

"Why the cease-fire?" Bill hissed at McGonagall, figuring that she must be aware of something that he wasn't, as usual. "What does he hope to gain from it?"

"I don't know," she responded, "but I suspect that we will learn soon enough."

She was proven correct in such an assessment, as she generally was, for You-Know-Who drawled, "I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you, rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of the hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"So the despicable coward intends to play off Potter's noble propensity to rescue anyone he possibly can, and to not permit others to suffer for him?" McGonagall scoffed, her contempt clear to anybody who wasn't utterly deaf in both ears. "Well, I always knew that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would shrivel up and die if integrity approached him."

"But surely Harry won't give into his demands," muttered Bill, his eyes widening at the notion. "He's not stupid, so he has to comprehend that You-Know-Who wouldn't honor his promises, anyway, and we could all perish, regardless of what he does."

"Let's hope that Miss Granger will explain as much to him," McGonagall replied crisply. "Now, we must get down to the Great Hall, where we can assemble the wounded—and the dead."

Less than ten minutes later, he, Parvati, Lavender, and McGonagall arrived back in the Great Hall, after walking through the entrance hall with its blood-soaked flagstones, and McGonagall had cleared away the House tables with a swish of her wand to create space in which to lay the wounded, the dying, and the dead. Not long after that, to take his mind off his fears that his entire family had been killed in the worse fashions imaginable, Bill busied himself with tending to a scrawny boy who choked out that his surname was "Peakes" and who was unmistakably underage, and who was coughing out a bucketful of his own blood, despite Madam Promfery's ministrations.

In the end, all Bill could do was hold his hand, and implore God to show the poor kid mercy, as the lad, who had his whole life ahead of him, begged for death to deliver him from his anguish, and that ripped at Bill's heart more than anything else he had witnessed on this dreadful day. Perhaps, fickle death was feeling magnanimous, for it took the boy relatively quickly, even as Bill raged against the tyranny of it, and the fact that innocent children were slaughtered while the monster who butchered them seemed to have eternal immunity to death.

"Bill, zere you are! I was so scared zat you 'ad—but, no, 'ere you are!" Abruptly, Fleur swept down upon him, kissing his sweaty hair and forehead, and tugging his hand out of Peakes' death-grip. As he turned to examine her, and was relieved to find that she was in one piece, except for s scratch that extended down the length of her left cheek, she informed him, "Your mama and papa wish to see you—zey—zey 'ave something to show you."

While he rose obediently to follow her over to his parents, he noted the quaver in her tone, and the tears that he had not noticed before pouring down her cheeks. "What's going on?" he demanded. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

However, she merely shook her head, her silver hair whipping against his cheek gently, as they reached Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and the latter threw her arms around him with enough strength to crush a Muggle car, and screamed, "Oh, there you are, dear, thank heavens that you're all right! Percy and the twins haven't—haven't come back yet!"

When his wife had finally released their son, Arthur approached his eldest child, and rested an arm on his shoulder. "Bill, I've got something to tell you."

"Fleur told me that." Bill couldn't keep a faint note of impatience from entering his voice. "So, what happened?"

"I don't know how to say it." Mr. Weasley chewed on his lower lip.

"Just say it, Dad," sighed Bill, thinking that whatever it was must be awful, since the last time his father had been this reluctant to explain something to him, Ginny had opened the Chamber of Secrets, and set Slytherin's monster on several Muggle-Borns.

"Remus and Tonks are—are dead."

"That's not funny, Dad," he answered automatically, shaking his head, because the words would not compute, since he refused to allow them to do so, as that might make them actually, irrevocably dead.

"I'm not joking." His father's voice was gentle, but firm, and sounded as though it had come from a million miles in the distance, although it could not have, because the man was standing right beside him.

"Then you're lying." Bill gave another shake of his head, and blinked angrily, trying to get the tears that were welling up in his eyes to disappear, to return to wherever the body manufactured tears, because they were not required. Remus and Tonks couldn't be dead, not when they had just been wed, and recently had their first son. Life could be cruel, and indifferent, but surely not that cruel and indifferent.

"I've never lied to you," Mr. Weasley reminded him, his own eyes moist.

"Er, yeah, you have, you told me that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy exist, and they certainly don't," he countered, although he was perfectly aware that the circumstances were entirely different, because it was his last, desperate hope.

Mr. Weasley's response was rendered incoherent when a piercing scream that he had never offered in his lifetime was wrenched out of Bill's throat. He had just glimpsed Remus and Tonks resting side-by-side together, their pale, impassive faces to devoid of any emotion even for slumber. Cursing everyone from God to You-Know-Who to the Death Eaters, Bill stumbled blindly over to his two friends, and laid a palm on each of their motionless chests, which were as cold as ice cubes to his touch.

His living, tear-filled brown eyes met their dead, forever empty, forever expressionless, forever unfeeling, ones, and he burst into uncontrollable sobs. Lord, he had not wept like this since he'd thought that Ginny had perished in the Chamber of Secrets. Tonks' eyes were supposed to be filled with laughter and a fierce wit, as they had been when she had teased Charlie at school, or joked around at Order meetings just to ease the awful tension that they had all felt. She had been a part of his life for so long that he had never even thought to acknowledge her presence. He remembered how she had run sobbing from one Transfiguration class, wailing about how Julie Ross had told everyone that she had a crush on Charlie Weasley, star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and how Charlie would never want anything to do with her now...he remembered with a pang how she had used to have very little control over her power to change her features at Hogwarts, and how, even as an adult, she had been susceptible to altering nose shapes when she was furious at someone or something...and she had always been so blasted clumsy, in a good way, of course. Merlin, he would have done anything to see her upend a candle, even a burning one, again in her excitement. But that would never, ever happen again, because death had moved her forever out of his reach, for as long as his own life endured, which might not be that long, considering that he was in the middle of a battle against You-Know-Who, something that unfortunately had a very high mortality rate.

Unable to look at her any longer, because he wanted to recall her as the vibrant, buoyant woman she was, Bill focused on her husband, instead, and instantly wished he hadn't. Gazing at Remus was as horrible as looking at Tonks, because Remus' eyes were supposed to be filled with intelligence and seriousness, as they had been whenever he attended Order meetings, or when he and Bill swapped tips of dealing with goblins or werewolves. He couldn't bear for Remus to be stolen from him anymore than he could bear for Tonks to be, because, ever since his return to England, Remus had been his best friend. It had been Remus who had helped him come to terms with Chris' and Mike's betrayal, and who he had been able to get wasted with at Remus' and Tonks' nuptials, and he had been looking forward to sharing so much more with the other man once the war finally ended, but that wouldn't happen now. Now all he had left of Remus was an eerily still body on the ground.

"Zey 'ad so much left to experience togezzer—raising Teddy, and growing old togezzer," whispered Fleur, leaning her head upon his shoulder, as they stared down at the bodies of their comrades. "Life is so short, so very, very short zat I will never understand it."

For some reason, her words jogged something in Bill's memory, and he fumbled in Remus' robes for a moment before withdrawing a photograph of little Teddy Tonks, who did indeed resemble both his parents, or, at least, he did in this picture, although that might change, depending upon how he altered his futures at whim.

"At—at least they left a good legacy behind them," he commented, although it demanded an incredible amount of effort to do so, placing the picture on Remus' chest, and then putting Tonks' hand on top of it. "That's all anyone can ask for in the end, I guess."

With difficulty, he craned his neck up to address his dad, who, he realized now, had been squeezing his shoulders. "How did they—go? You saw it, didn't you?"

Mr. Weasley hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, I did."

"And?" Bill pressed. He had to know the details, because, for some bizarre reason he did not comprehend fully himself, that would make their deaths less haunting, and might eventually permit him to find peace with their passing.

"Remus was locked in a duel with Dolohov," Mr. Weasley educated him in a rush. "It was going badly, and he—he cast the Killing Curse on Remus, and there was nothing I could do, as I was busy with Travers and Yaxley myself, and, suddenly, Tonks appeared on the scene, and she tried to rescue him. It didn't work, and Dolohov took advantage of her grief and surprise to do away with her."

"That bastard." Unconsciously, Bill stroked his wand, thinking he would avenge both of them. Yes, Dolohov really would make an excellent target for the Cruciatius Curse. It was empowering, wonderful, exhilarating, and so right to envision the man writhing about before him, and he would make certain that every second of Dolohov's pain lasted an eternity, and he would force him to pay recompense for everything that Tonks and Remus had suffered at the end at his hands. But where had that thought come from?

He could not allow himself to travel down that dark, perilous path, he lectured himself. Sure, he knew he had the power to use the Cruciatius Curse if he desired to, because, after all, the Carrows could do it, and they were hardly the swiftest brooms in the shed when it came to mental abilities, but just because someone could do something, that hardly meant that they should, and he definitely shouldn't start taking pleasure in torturing others, as that would transform him into the very enemy he wanted to defeat. In effect, if he surrendered to the urge to hunt down Dolohov and torture him to death, he would become the darkness, and the star that he was supposed to be would burn out forever. No, he must guard against his savage temptations.

Just as he reached this resolution, it was to be tested when, the very next second, his whole world exploded into agony again, and he had another person that he wanted more than anything to avenge, as he saw chalk-white Percy and George struggle to drag a lifeless form that greatly resembled Fred, but that could not possibly be him, because he could not die, into the Great Hall through the double doors.

His conviction that it wasn't Fred's corpse was crumbled when his mother dashed forward, screaming as though a dozen Cruciatus Curses had been cast upon her at once, and threw herself on top of Fred, crying out his name repeatedly with such raw grief that Bill knew that it would be echoing inside his dreams and ringing inside his head forever, even if he lived to be a thousand years old, which, given their current circumstances, was about as likely to happen as the sun starting to revolve around the Earth.

Still, what rattled him to the core, even more than his mum's wailing was his dad's reaction. When he had seen his dead child, Mr. Weasley had done the impossible, and started to cry. Not loudly, but enough to alarm his eldest son. Bill had never witnessed his father in tears before, and he never wanted to do so again. He could handle his mother's sobbing, but he relied on his dad for quiet strength, and he wasn't ready to deal with the fact that his father was as vulnerable as anyone else, and he wanted desperately to say, or do, something, anything, to make the man stop crying, but he understood that he could not. Nothing, not even another son, could make up for a lost child. Nobody, not even George, could make up for Fred. That was the stark truth. Fred was gone, and nothing would ever be the same for anyone, and there was nothing Bill could do about it.

Tears for his fallen brother obscured his vision, as he watched Percy, who was wrenching handfuls of hair from his head, kneel beside Fred, and, rocking back and forth like an anxious house-elf, moan, "It's all my fault! All my fault! I'll never forgive myself. I'll never wash the blood from my hands. He—he was laughing at a joke I had told when he d—died! The walls just caved in on all of us when the giant smashed it, and he was gone just like that! All my fault!" He continued to mumble this, rocking back and forth in a spasm.

But his younger brother's feelings of guilt was something he could possibly heal a bit. Firmly, through the cloud of water that veiled his own eyes, Bill put a hand on Percy's shoulder, and commanded, "Get up, Perce. There's nothing more you can do for him now, and you're not responsible for his death."

For several long moments, Percy just gaped at him, as though he had just spoken in some language as yet unknown to mankind, and then he pushed himself to his feet, and let Bill and Fleur drag him away to stand a couple of meters away from the corpse that a few hours ago had been a laughing, jesting, living, breathing, fighting person. Bill's little brother. A little angel. A rebel angel, like all of them, not a devil. Not a demon's spawn, like Bill had thought. Not a terrible twin. A rebel angel that had always been headed for eternity, even from the moment Bill had first changed his diaper and ruled that he had been sent from the Devil to terrorize the rest of the world.

"I loved him." Percy's voice broke as he glanced at Fred.

"I know. We all did." Bill nodded, and a fresh wave of tears trickled down his cheeks, and Fleur hugged him.

"You're crying." Percy stared at him with a horrified disbelief etched on his face, and Bill realized that his younger brother was experiencing the same shock he had felt a little while ago when he had seen his dad sob for the first time.

"It's the light," he lied. Maybe his sibling would believe him, and his attempt to protect Percy would work.

Percy ignored this, as he muttered, burying his head in his palms, "I loved him, but I'm not sure he knew it. I was always so, so terse with him and George—"

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Bill interjected, trying to stave off the tide of self-recriminations, because he didn't want to hear it, as it would rip up his heart further, "they were gits to you, too, and, besides the purpose of brothers is to argue."

"Maybe, but I refused to connect with them," continued Percy, clenching and unclenching his fists, so that his knuckles became pearls. "At Hogwarts, on Christmas, I would never sit with them, and I would never laugh at their jokes when everyone else had gathered around them to do that, even when I thought the ones I heard were hilarious, and, when we were little, and we shared a room, I would shout at them when they jumped on my bed in the morning."

"Nobody likes to be awoken in the morning," Bill shrugged. "It was nice of you just to yell at them, in fact, because I chopped off Charlie's head whenever he woke me up early."

"I wasn't asleep," Percy announced baldly, "I was awake, but I would pretend to be asleep when they got up, and wanted to play with me, and now I don't know why. I just don't know why." Here he gazed at Fred again. "I'm starting to believe that you have only so many chances to appreciate someone while they're alive, before you are forced to do so when they are taken from you."

Bill couldn't face that idea, because then he would have to think about all the callous things he had said to the twins. How he had called them devils, and terrors, and threatened to hex them. How he had not even learned to tell them apart. Christ, he had been an awful big brother to them. Aloud, he said only, "We'd better compose ourselves a bit. Ginny's at the door."

As Ginny crossed into the Great Hall, they both attempted to dry their eyes as best they could on the sleeves of their robes, but they need not have bothered, because her focus was riveted on her dead brother, as she sank down, wailing, by Fred, joining the assembly of mourners about him.

A handful of minutes after Ginny arrived, Ron entered the Hall, and went to stand beside him, Fleur, and Percy. A frozen expression was rooted on Bill's youngest brother's face, as Percy slung an arm around him, and they all just remained silent, lost in memories of Fred.

Bill might have stood there for ten more minutes, or five more centuries, when a familiar figure strode into the Hall, and marched up to him.

"I received your message," Louis stated without preamble, as he reached Bill.

"You got here faster than I expected," replied Bill.

"Well, I was in France, as my father has just passed on to bigger and better things, and my dear older brothers want me to handle the inheritance matters, because they have determined that I have the most experience in such affairs, as I work at Gringotts, so I was able to receive your owl faster than I would have if I had been in Egypt." Louis glanced about the chamber. "I have to say that I expected a bigger battle. Did I miss everything? Did I miss the opportunity to insult the Death Eaters in French?"

"Nah, it should be starting again soon." Bill checked his watch and realized that they had five minutes of the cease-fire left. "In five minutes, as a matter of fact. You-Know-Who declared a break so that he could trick Harry into coming to him."

"Oh, that would explain how I got through the Death Eaters defenses so easily," Louis reasoned, "I thought it was because they were overcome by my good looks."

Realizing suddenly that he had not spotted Harry since the cease-fire began, Bill frowned at Ron. "Where is Harry, by the way?"

"I don't know," answered Ron. "He entered the Hall with me and Hermione."

At that moment, a scream shook the air, and Bill's heart stopped as he realized it was Minerva McGonagall shouting in the disbelieving tones one would employ when one's hero had perished, "POTTER!"

But Harry couldn't be dead. They needed him too much, and he could not possibly have been naive enough to have taken You-Know-Who at his word. He must still be alive, Bill had to cling to that, although that did not stop him from charging through the entrance hall along with everyone else, and spilling out onto the steps to the grounds, where what he saw made his lungs expel enough oxygen to create a small hurricane. If he had thought things had reached the bottom, he was wrong, because there did not seem to be an end to the well they had all stumbled into, for Harry Potter was dead, held aloft for all to see by a sobbing Hagrid, and a pack of Death Eaters, led by You-Know-Who, was surrounding the school. It was a scene out of his worst nightmares, and he could not wake up.

"Harry!" he called the name of his adopted brother out, along with the rest of his family, his wife, and Hermione, and probably everyone else who had exited the castle to learn what had happened. Please asleep, Harry, he begged silently, please be enraged at us for waking you up. Yet Harry didn't wake up, and everything remained suspended as it was until one voice pierced the silence.


	74. Chapter 74

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in posting this, but I had finals and the ACT to worry about, and my computer crashed for a few days, so I couldn't have posted it, anyway, even if I had the time and the brain necessary to write another chapter

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in posting this, but I had finals and the ACT to worry about, and my computer crashed for over a week, so I couldn't have posted it, anyway, even if I had the time and the brain necessary to write another chapter. (By the way, you have my sincere apologies if you left a review in that timeframe, and I was unable to respond to it. It was nothing personal, I assure you, and I will get back to as soon as I can. Thanks for your understanding.)

Also, this chapter borrows (you could say "copies," I suppose, but I prefer "borrows) a lot of what was in the seventh book, but it sort of couldn't be avoided due to the nature of the second half of the final battle, but please be patient with me, because next chapter will be more original, I promise.

Disclaimer: Anything that reminds you of Harry Potter is the property of Ms. J.K. Rowling, who is kind enough not to sue me. The italicized lines in the opening of the chapter are from_ Paradise Lost_, and therefore, belong to Mr. John Milton, who is far too dead to sue me, but who I should acknowledge anyway.

--

The Bitter End

"_What though the field be lost? _

_All is not lost; the unconquerable will,_

_And study of revenge, immortal hate,_

_And courage never to submit or yield:_

_And what else is not to be overcome?_

_That glory never shall his wrath or might_

_Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace_

_With suppliant knee, and deify his power_

_Who from the terror of this arm so late_

_Doubted his empire, that were low indeed,_

_That were an ignominy and shame beneath this downfall." _

John Milton, _Paradise Lost_, Book 1 (Spelling modified, because the original version is murder to the eyes, although it's not as bad as Chaucer's original version of the _Canterbury Tales_.)

"It is over!" You-Know-Who declared triumphantly, and Bill wanted more than anything to avert his eyes, and deny the truth of what had happened and was happening, but he couldn't do that, because to do so was cowardly, and the world had enough chickens, mice, and rats in it without him transfiguring himself into one. Waving his hand indolently at poor, noble, and naive Harry's corpse, he ordered, "Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

Now, Bill permitted himself to stare at the bloody grass beneath his feet, as Hagrid gingerly, reverently, placed the boy who was worth approximately nine million of You-Know-Who at the feet of the devil himself. Gosh, didn't the dead deserve some respect? They shouldn't be forced to pay homage to their murderers in death, for Merlin's sake.

"You see?" purred You-Know-Who in his honey-laced, but ultimately poisonously seductive voice, trying to twist their minds, and cripple their hopes with his words as only he could do. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied upon others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

That wasn't true. It couldn't be right, for Harry was the one who continually sacrificed himself for others. After all, wasn't that why he was lying dead on the ground before them all? Hadn't he gone into the forest, per You-Know-Who's demand, to rescue them all? Yet, Bill couldn't find the words to articulate this conviction aloud, and, apparently, nobody else could accomplish this feat, either. Nobody else, save Ron, who snapped, "He beat you!"

For some reason, now that the ice had been cracked, now that the truth had been established, Bill had no problem with bursting out shouting that You-Know-Who was a card short of a deck if he believed what he had just claimed. Apparently, the other defenders of Hogwarts felt similarly, for they all resoundingly affirmed Ron's argument, or negated You-Know-Who's.

At the back of his mind, Bill recognized that there would be a severe price to pay for their defiance, but right now he didn't give a rat's dropping about that. All he cared about was resisting You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. It would be more honorable to die fighting in a pool of his own blood than to suffer the ignominy of surrendering to the evilest wizard that ever disgraced the globe.

Within a moment, You-Know-Who had gotten exasperated with their screaming of dissenting remarks, probably because he was accustomed to unquestioning obedience from his Death Eater slaves, and he swished his wand with a furious expression crackling in his crimson, inhuman eyeballs, and Bill discovered that his throat had suddenly constricted, as though he had just been afflicted with a horrid bout of asthma. Judging by the fact that the rest of his allies had abruptly gone mute, and the fact that many were clutching their necks, looking astonished, You-Know-Who must have cast a Silencing Charm upon the lot of them. For the first time, Bill truly comprehended just how potent a magician You-Know-Who was, because he would have been lucky if he could have effectively Silenced a group of toads as numerous as they were in one shot. God, help us, he prayed, and instantly feared that the unbearable quiet all about him was the voice of God, refusing to intervene, sentencing them all to death, because none of them would surrender to You-Know-Who, since they had too much courage, and too much pride, for that.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," You-Know-Who announced, and Bill pondered if anyone whose brain had just been swapped with that of a fruit fly's would accept this tale as reality. "He was killed while trying to save himself, killed—"

Here, however, he was chopped off by an abrupt, obstinate cry, as Neville Longbottom managed to break free of the Silencing Charm, which humiliated Bill, as, from what he had heard from his siblings, Neville was the kind of boy who had his heart in the correct place, but didn't have his head screwed on properly, and, yet, he had shattered the enchantment that bound them all before Bill, who had been Head Boy, and had received top grades on all his examinations, had. Was there no justice in the universe at all?

Immediately, he was ashamed of such petty emotions when he saw Neville launch himself at You-Know-Who. Heavens, the boy was going to perish, and there was nothing Bill could do to save him, as he was trapped by You-Know-Who's spell. Again, he wished to look away, but decided that the lad's final act of valor should be remembered for as long as Bill's own life endured, which, given the current outlook of things, would probably be another hour or so, on the off chance that luck deigned to be with him for once.

Bill braced himself to witness Neville collapse, spread-eagled, upon the grass as You-Know-Who raised his wand, and brought it down with a flick...but, no, that didn't occur. You-Know-Who, impossibly enough, had merely Disarmed the boy, and knocked him to the ground. Knowing that You-Know-Who did not have a magnanimous cell in his body, Bill contemplated what possible advantage the Dark Wizard hoped to gain from preserving the lad's life.

"And who is this?" You-Know-Who hissed, sounding like the serpent that symbolized his cruel House. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

At his words, bile burned its path up Bill's esophagus. You-Know-Who could not possibly be planning on torturing the adolescent to death. Surely, even he had to have some sort of scruple that prevented him from doing that. Surely, even he had the grace somewhere inside himself to grant young Neville a quick, painless death. But Bellatrix Lestrange's manic, sadistic laugh destroyed this faint hope.

"It's Neville Longbottom, my Lord!" she crowed, and Bill flinched at the honorific You-Know-Who certainly had not earned. "The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember," You-Know-Who breathed, as he scanned Neville, who had shoved himself to his feet, and was standing tall and proud before his enemies, ready to meet his end with all the strength and courage he could muster. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?"

"So what if I am?" scoffed Neville, his chin jutting out, and Bill had to admire his spunk, and his understanding of just how little blood mattered.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom." You-Know-Who could have been the snake in the Garden of Eden, but Neville was no Eve or Adam.

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," he snarled. Pivoting to face his allies once again, he raised a fist into the air. "Dumbledore's Army!"

For some reason, at the name of the good man, the kind man, the gentle man, and the wise man who had been one of the two wizards that You-Know-Who had ever been intimidated by, Bill felt the Silencing Charm that had shackled him for so long unlock, and, mentally thanking Dumbledore, he called in reply, "Dumbledore's Army!"

The fact that what seemed like a hundred voices joined him in this endeavor implied that the Silencing Charm had worn off the rest of You-Know-Who's adversaries, as well.

"Very well," drawled You-Know-Who, his silky tone more menacing than a rattlesnake's rattle, or a scorpion's rising tail, "if that is your choice, Neville Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your own head, be it."

As the final hateful word emerged from his lips, You-Know-Who waved his wand, and, seconds later, out of one of the castle's many shattered windows, flew what appeared to be a misshapen bird. When it landed in his hand, and he had shaken the top of it by its pointed end, it was revealed to be the Sorting Hat.

What was going on? Bill wondered, his forehead furrowing, because an old and battered hat that talked did not seem like a very marvelous murder weapon, but, then again, after all his years of experience, You-Know-Who probably knew what he was doing. Of that much, Bill could be sure, as discomfiting a notion as that was.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts," pronounced You-Know-Who, casually setting a thousand years or more of tradition on its ear in one simple sentence. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

Before Neville could retort, You-Know-Who had fixed his wand on him, and cast the Full-Body-Bind Curse on him. Once Neville had gone rigid and motionless, You-Know-Who forced the Sorting Hat onto his head. Why would he do that?

Then, in a blinding second, Bill had his answer: if there was to be no more Sorting, there would be no need for a hat to accomplish the Sorting, which meant that the Hat would be a liability. You-Know-Who destroyed liabilities as quickly as possible, meaning that the Hat was going to be gotten rid of— with Neville inside of it!

As he reached this conclusion, Bill fished inside his robes for his wand, seeing that Fleur, Ginny, Luna, Dean, Hermione, Ron, McGonagall, and an elderly woman were all doing the same thing, but none of them could rescue Neville, because Death Eaters had already moved to foil them, their wands at the ready. Cursing his foes in English and Gobbledegook for good measure, Bill watched helplessly as You-Know-Who established lazily, "Neville here is going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me." Then, with an equally indifferent twitch of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to explode into flames.

At the sight of the cap going up in flames along with the teenager inside it, Bill, Ron, and McGonagall screamed, Luna and Fleur gasped, Hermione whimpered and stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stifle the sound, and Dean and Louis swore loudly, Dean in English, and Louis in French. Bill was just preparing to duel with a Death Eater, so that he might stand a chance of reaching the boy before he was killed in the fire, when the entire world shifted beneath his feet, literally and figuratively.

The earth trembled slightly as parents of students at Hogwarts and residents of Hogsmeade thundered up to the school, swarming over the walls, and pelting toward the castle, sounding their own battle cries. Barely a nanosecond later, a full-fledged earthquake occurred as a small giant came lumbering out of the Forbidden Forest, yelling, "Hagger!"

"It's Hagrid's half-brother, Grawp, you know, the one who speaks better English than the Carrows," Ginny muttered, her eyes wide, as You-Know-Who's giants roared at Grawp, and charged the smaller giant, and everyone grabbed onto their neighbor's arm to try to steady themselves as the ground danced underneath them.

The next second, the air was pierced with dozens of arrows shot from centaur bows that landed amongst the Death Eaters, forcing them to break their ranks. Surprised, because centaurs typically did not involve themselves in Wizarding wars, Bill stared at the centaurs, who were now charging at the Death Eaters, but recovered in time to see Neville escape from the confines of the Hat, no longer bound by the spell, withdraw a glittering silver sword from it, a feat which seemed far more credible due to the clashing giants nearby and the charging herd of centaurs, and behead You-Know-Who's serpent with it.

However, he barely had time to register this, before the oncoming centaurs and the approach of the battling giants forced him to grab Fleur and Ginny by the arms, and flee into the castle with them. Around him, over the pounding hooves and giant punches, he could hear the faint thunder of his allies and enemies alike all stampeding like startled zebras into the school.

Once he had gained the relative safety and peace of the entrance hall, Bill released his wife and sister, and cast a Trip Jinx upon a Death Eater who had been pelting up the stairwell behind them, and who fell, tripping two of his fellows along with him. Then, he turned to regard the fight that was already underway inside Hogwarts, and raced over to join Louis in a duel against two Death Eaters that were roughly the size of boulders, and who Bill thought were called Crabbe and Goyle.

"You look familiar." One Death Eater, who Bill chose to refer to as Crabbe in his mind, spoke with considerable difficulty to Louis, as he deflected Louis' Stunning Spell.

"Yes," Louis agreed, his manner mock amiable, as, with a flick of his wand, he caused Crabbe to clutch his wrist, moaning in agony, "I imagine that I'm the face that you wish you saw every morning in the mirror."

"You were at this Weasley's wedding," Crabbe insisted, recovering himself before Louis could press his advantage, as Bill cast a Bat-Bogey Hex on Goyle, who threw his wand to the ground, and helplessly began swatting at them, and, figuring that Goyle would be out of commission until he realized that he needed his wand to Banish the beasts, Bill stepped closer to reinforce Louis. "You said you didn't speak English, but you do!"

"How much do you usually charge for such valuable and insightful comments?" Louis inquired, as he sent a stream of lethal silver knives that he Conjured with a flick of his wand, at Crabbe, who managed to Conjure a shield in time to deflect the knives back onto his two attackers. "I would hate to underpay you," Louis finished, as he waved the daggers away from them, and sent them soaring into the back of a nearby Death Eater, who collapsed onto the marble floor, clutching his chest.

Tiring of Crabbe, because he really wasn't a very fascinating or challenging opponent, Bill Summoned a torch out of its bracket in the entrance hall, and directed it at Crabbe, who disappeared in a mound of flames, because he had been expecting the next attack to come from Louis.

When he had finished his duel with Crabbe, Bill spotted Charlie dart into the entrance hall at the front of a tide of reinforcements. Hollering a greeting at his brother, Bill disappeared into the fray again, joining his wife in her duel against a pair of Death Eaters. He had just deflected an Impediment Jinx from one Death Eater, and retaliated with his own Freezing Charm, which immobilized his adversary, when the door to the entrance hall was slammed open once more, and the herd of centaurs burst into the battle, and started shooting down Death Eaters left, right, and center.

The Death Eater that Bill and Fleur were fighting, the one who had not been immobilized by the Freezing Charm, toppled to the ground, as heavy as a monument, with an arrow piercing through his stomach. With their two enemies felled, Bill whirled about to engage Alecto Carrow in a duel, as Fleur joined Charlie in his confrontation with Macnair, whom Charlie seemed to despise even more than the average Death Eater, because Macnair made a living by butchering what Charlie and Hagrid constituted as "interesting creatures" for the Ministry.

Bill had barely dodged Alecto's Cruciatius Curse and responded with a handy spell of his own designed to knock her unconscious, when, once again, an army of creatures, this time a battalion of house-elves from the kitchen, bearing cleavers and wooden spoons, headed by none other than Kreacher, who was rallying the elves with calls about fighting for his Master, the champion of house-elves, arrived in the hall.

As Alecto jumped out of the path of the beam of light Bill had intended to transfigure her into a beetle, and she fired a Stunning Spell of her own back at him, which he deflected and redirected toward her brother, Amycus, the house-elves dashed about at knee-level, slicing the shins and calves of You-Know-Who's followers.

It did not take long for a house-elf to reach Alecto, and, her focus riveted on Bill, who had just sent a Confunding Charm at her, she did not notice its presence until it had slit both her ankles, so that they dripped blood upon the already scarlet stained marble, and when she pivoted, howling like a transformed werewolf, to hex it, it had already scampered off to chop up the legs of her allies. Calling the house-elf who had injured her a host of vulgar terms, Alecto retreated from the castle, as quickly as her wounds and the duels raging throughout the hall would permit. Watching her flee, Bill centered his wand on her back...

Oh, it would be so simple to kill her now...to make her pay for the deaths of Fred, Remus, and Tonks, and that teenaged boy Peakes who had died clutching Bill's hand, pleading for death to come soon, even though he should have been able to live for so much longer, just as Fred, Remus, and Tonks had deserved to live for so, so much more time...it would be so easy to get revenge on Alecto for what his sister and so many others had suffered during her and her sibling's reign of terror at Hogwarts. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. Perhaps, later, he could justify it by claiming that he had killed her in a fair duel, or perhaps nobody would see it but himself, but, no matter what, he would know the truth. She might be able to murder defenseless beings in the name of selfish, vengeful urges, but he was not her, and he could never become her. Not even for a moment, because that was all evil required to get a foothold on him, and then he would never be the same again.

Taking a breath to focus and calm himself, Bill glanced about the entrance hall, searching for a skirmish that he could add himself to, or a Death Eater who, unlike Alecto and at least a dozen others, had not fled, whom he could engage in a duel of his own with, and he discovered that all the combatants were suspended mid-motion, their eyes fixated on something that was occurring in the center of the hall.

His mother was running at Bellatrix Lestrange, who, a moment ago, it seemed had been dueling with Hermione, Luna, and Ginny, and who must have come so close to finishing off Ginny that it made Bill tremble even to think about it, screaming, "NOT MY DAUGHTER,YOU BITCH!"

As he saw, as if in slow-motion, his mum throw off her cloak, freeing her arms and hands for the impending battle, Bill wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. There was no way she was capable of taking on You-Know-Who's right hand man, well, woman, actually. Bellatrix Lestrange was the equal of, say, a Minerva McGonagall, not a Molly Weasley.

While Bellatrix cackled with amusement at the sight of her newest challenger, Mrs. Weasley flapped her hands like an irate pigeon would its wings, gesturing for the three girls who had been battling Bellatrix previously to clear the area, and started the duel with a swipe of her wand. To Bill's surprise, it transpired that his mother did know how to fight, for she was giving as good as she was getting, a fact that made Bellatrix's lunatic smile falter for the first time that evening. The fight escalated, and Bill found that he was biting his bottom lip so hard that it had bled, filling his mouth with a metallic taste, as the two witches began fighting to kill, and the floor around them began to crack and scorch from all the occasions that they had narrowly missed death.

God, this was getting to be too much for him to handle. He would have to intervene, if his dad wasn't going to. As Bill and several others pushed forward with the intent of aiding her, his mum, not sparing them a glance because she was so wrapped up in her duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, barked, "No, get back! Get back! She is mine!"

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" taunted Bellatrix, dancing as an infuriated Mrs. Weasley's curses narrowly missed her. "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

Don't listen to her, Bill silently pleaded with his mother, don't listen to a word the psychopath says—she's just trying to divert your attention.

"You—will—never—touch—our—children—again!" declared Mrs. Weasley, emphasizing every word with a curse from her wand.

Bellatrix laughed at this statement, but the next second, her gloating laughter had died upon her lips, when her opponent's spell soared beneath her outstretched wand, and collided squarely with her chest, directly over her heart, assuming that she still had one, of course. Her eyes widened, as she realized what had hit her, and then she crumpled to the floor, dead.

Elated, but still a little shocked that his mum possessed so much power, enough to kill You-Know-Who's most valuable follower, Bill took a step forward to congratulate her, but halted abruptly when You-Know-Who emitted a shriek that from any other being might have been deemed as grief, and blasted McGonagall, Kingsley, and a potbellied wizard, all three of whom he had been fighting with, into the air, and charged at Mrs. Weasley.

"Mum!" Bill called, horrified, and, from a distance, he could hear Ginny, Ron, Charlie, Percy, and George shout the exact same thing. This could not be happening! It couldn't be. You-Know-Who could not possibly be running at their mother with an expression of absolute fury etched upon his every feature! His mother could not really be about to die before Bill's eyes. If he pinched himself, he would find that this whole thing had been a nightmare, and nothing more. Yet, when he pinched himself, he remained stubbornly rooted in the hall.

Bill had just been about to make a mad dash forward to attempt to save his mum, even though he knew that there was no way he could reach her before You-Know-Who did, when suddenly a voice originating between You-Know-Who and Mrs. Weasley roared, "Protego!"

Barely a second later, before You-Know-Who could react to the thwarting of his plans, Harry had appeared out of nowhere on the floor, centered between his adopted mother and the Dark Lord. But Harry couldn't possibly be present. He was dead. The pressure of everything that had happened in the past couple of hours must have caused Bill to hallucinate.

If he was hallucinating, however, everybody else must have had the same problem, because the hall was filled with yells of shock, cheers, and exclamations of, "Harry!" It was rather like being present at the resurrection of Christ.

However, these noises were quickly stifled once You-Know-Who, who also could spot Harry, started to circle the boy who seemed to have evaded death by him once again. Mirroring the movements of his greatest enemy, Harry began to circle You-Know-Who, as well, so that the two wizards resembled wolves fighting for dominance over a pack.

"I don't want anyone else to try and help," Harry announced, as a couple of people edged forward, obviously hoping to assist him in his impending struggle. "It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

Ah, Bill determined mentally, then it must have been true, what the _Daily Prophet_ had reported a year or so ago, about there being a prophecy that dictated that either Harry or You-Know-Who must do away with each other. Wow, he was duly impressed. It seemed that the paper did occasionally report facts, as well as fiction.

"Potter doesn't mean that," hissed You-Know-Who, his eyes expanding in a parody of surprise. "That isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"

"Nobody," Harry replied with a simple dignity that reminded Bill indelibly of Dumbledore, which caused a pang of grief for the ancient wizard who had perished last year at around this time to well up inside him. "There are no more..." Harry tossed out a word that Bill did not comprehend, but that You-Know-Who apparently did, if his contracting eyes were any indication. "It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good."

Excellent, so Bill had been right about the newspaper being correct. Now, all he had to do was pray that Harry would be the survivor of the final showdown, not You-Know-Who.

"One of us?" jeered You-Know-Who, his body resembling a coiled cobra about to strike its victim. "You think it will be you, do you? The boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?"

"Accident, was it, when my mother died to save me?" Harry inquired pleasantly, again sounding like Dumbledore, as the two mortal enemies continued to circle each other. "Accident, when I decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident, that I didn't defend myself tonight, and still survived, and returned to fight again?"

"Accidents!" screeched You-Know-Who, and in a person who could still be regarded as human, one might have charecterized the expression on his face as one of fear, fear of some higher power that could not be understood. "Accident and chance and the fact that you crouched behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!"

"You won't be killing anyone else tonight," Harry informed him, as they continued to dance about, their eyes warring with each other, bright green battling with unnatural crimson, and, for once, Bill wanted emerald, not scarlet, to win. "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from killing these people—"

"But you did not!" interjected You-Know-Who, his tone shrill, and Bill wished he hadn't, because he wanted to learn how exactly Harry had lived through what was formerly thought impossible.

"I meant to." Harry dismissed this contention with a shrug. "That's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you." Here, Bill realized why the spells You-Know-Who had cast upon them had not endured for long, and why they had been capable of shaking them off so rapidly. As if to confirm his epiphany, Harry plunged on, addressing You-Know-Who, "Haven't you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can't torture them. You can't touch them. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?"

"You dare—" You-Know-Who stuttered, and Bill could not comprehend why he had taken such great offense at being called by some random surname.

"Yes, I dare. I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle," responded Harry quietly, as Bill gasped when he understood that "Tom Riddle" must have been You-Know-Who's childhood name. After all, nobody would name their baby boy "Lord Voldemort." Still, how had Harry learned You-Know-Who's childhood name, anyhow? "I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some before you make another big mistake?"

"Is it love again?" demanded You-Know-Who, his voice scathing, although he did not attack his opponent, held at bay, it seemed, by the possibility, however slim, that the teenager before him might have some useful knowledge to impart upon him. "Dumbledore's favorite solution, _love_, which he claimed conquered even death, though love did not stop him from falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork."

At this point, Bill's hands clenched until his knuckles were as pale as marble, as he remembered Dumbledore's death, and heard the insulting manner in which You-Know-Who described it. Gosh, if Harry did not finish off this lunatic soon, he would not be able to restrain himself much longer, regardless of the fact that Harry had insisted that he could handle this on his own, and obviously wanted nobody to interfere.

"Love." You-Know-Who's sneer remained firmly entrenched. "Love, which did not prevent me from stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter—and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you from dying when I strike."

"Just one thing." Harry shrugged again, but did not expound upon the notion, still holding You-Know-Who back with the notion of an untold, and significant secret.

"If it is not love that will save you this time," pressed You-Know-Who, "you must believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"

"I believe both."

For a second, pure shock at this placid statement flitted across You-Know-Who's face, before the Dark wizard strove to conceal it with a resounding humorless and insane laugh that was, to Bill's ears, more frightening even than his screams. "You think that _you_ know more magic than I do?" he sneered. "Than _I, _Lord Voldemort, who has performed magic that even Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?"

"Oh, he dreamed of it," Harry stated with a slight smile, "but he knew more than you. He knew enough not to do what you've done."

"You mean he was weak," snarled You-Know-Who, who looked somewhat wrong-footed by this remark, just as Bill was, because he could not ever have imagined Dumbledore dabbling in the Dark Arts, even if he had never been seduced by them. "He was too weak to dare, too weak to take what might have been his, and will be mine!"

"No," Harry argued softly. "He was cleverer than you. A better wizard, and a better man."

"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!" You-Know-Who's eyes were ablaze like a forest fire.

"You thought you did, but you were wrong."

Bill blinked at Harry's comment. Surely, the boy wasn't implying that he still thought Dumbledore was alive, because Bill knew for a fact that he wasn't, as he had attended the man's funeral himself, and he was painfully aware that the Headmaster of Hogwarts had been dead and buried. Hopefully, Harry's secret weapon wasn't the fact that he was in denial over Dumbledore's murder by Snape the Slimehead, because if it was, they were all done for, and wasn't that a happy thought after all they had been through?

"_Dumbledore is dead_!" You-Know-Who hurled the words at Harry, as if he anticipated that his foe would crumple in agony, but Harry did no such thing, still standing erect and unconcerned. His lips twisting in perverse pleasure at the idea, You-Know-Who went on with relish, "His body decays in the marble tomb in the grounds of this castle. I have seen it, Potter, and he will not return!"

"Yes, Dumbledore's dead," agreed Harry with absolute steadiness, "but you didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying."

Again, Bill blinked, astounded. Snape had taken Dumbledore by surprise, and murdered him, which definitely was not what Dumbledore would have wanted, even if he was renowned for his eccentric behavior. There were limits to even Dumbledore's insanity.

"He chose it months before he died," Harry resumed. "He arranged the whole thing with the man you thought was your servant."

"What childish dream is this?" For once, Bill could have agreed with You-Know-Who's comment, which was a rather scary thought in itself.

"Severus Snape wasn't yours." Harry blatantly announced what he had been suggesting for a few minutes, ignoring the gasps of surprise from people like Bill, who could not wrap their mind about this concept. Snape was a traitor like all Slytherins. Evilness in Slytherins was as expected as hugeness in elephants. "Snape was Dumbledore's, Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?"

Was Harry proposing that Snape had ever been in love with someone? Bill wondered. What utter nonsense! Snape was less capable of love than a brick, for Merlin's sake, and the idea itself was revolting, anyhow, and, anyway, there was no way that Snape would have chosen to love a Muggleborn, nonetheless a Muggleborn who had been a Gryffindor, if in fact he was able to love, which he was not. Case dismissed. As Bill reached this conclusion, Harry continued in his argument that Snape had loved Lily Potter.

"Snape's Patronus was a doe. The same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time they were children. You should have realized," he added, as You-Know-Who's nostrils flared in his temper, "he asked you to spare her life, didn't he?"

Bill gasped in alarm again. Snape would never save anyone's life, and he certainly would never do such a thing for a Muggleborn. It was against the core of a Slytherin's belief system.

"He desired her, that was all," You-Know-Who dismissed this, and Bill had to face the difficult idea that, at the very least, Snape had lusted after a Muggleborn, and had done everything he could do to preserve her life, which would probably cause his mind to explode soon, "but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other woman, and of purer blood, worthier of him—"

"Of course he told you that," Harry answered, "but he was Dumbledore's spy from the moment you threatened her, and he's been working against you ever since! Dumbledore was already dying when Snape finished him!"

Dumbledore had been dying before Snape had killed him? Great, yet another impossible fact for Bill to assimilate into his exhausted mind. Someday he must wrangle out of Harry how, in the name of all that was holy, he had managed to figure all of this out.

"It matters not!" shrilled You-Know-Who, though he did appear a little taken aback by this revelation, and he tried to hide it on a mad cackle. "It matters not whether Snape was mine or Dumbledore's or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed them as I crushed your mother, Snape's supposed great _love_! Oh, but it all makes sense, Potter, and in ways that you do not understand!" Here he rambled off into the incomprehensible, yattering about how Dumbledore had been attempting to keep an unbeatable wand from him by passing it onto Snape, but how he had thwarted Dumbledore by breaking into his tomb and robbing it from there, which mean that Dumbledore's final plan had gone awry.

"Yeah, it did," affirmed Harry carelessly, agreeing with You-Know-Who's closing statement, "you're right. But before you try to kill me, I'd advise you to think about what you've done, and try for some remorse, Riddle..."

"What is this?" You-Know-Who's face was the most astonished it had been yet. His pupils contracted until they were nothing more than slits, and it was plain that he had never imagined that anyone would urge him to repent for his sins.

"It's your last chance," Harry educated him. "It's all you've got left. I've seen what you'll be otherwise. Be a man, and try for some remorse."

"You dare—" You-Know-Who stammered, infuriated.

"Yes, I dare." Harry nodded. "Because Dumbledore's plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle."

After that, the two of them were off, arguing about an unbeatable wand, so quickly that Bill could not follow what they were yammering on about, until finally the verbal confrontation ended, and the magical one commenced, as both wizards shouted spells at the same time, You-Know-Who using the Killing Curse, and Harry, for some bizarre reason understood only by himself, casting a Disarming Spell.

In the center of the circle the pair of mortal enemies had been treading, the two spells collided with a bang like the blast of a canon, and a spark of golden flames. Then, impossibly enough, the green jet of light that was You-Know-Who's Killing Curse met the light of Harry's charm, and Harry's forced You-Know-Who's to rebound upon its creator, as You-Know-Who's wand sliced through the air toward Harry, who caught it in one smooth movement. As Harry captured You-Know-Who's wand, You-Know-Who himself hit the floor, with a crash no greater than any other man.

This could not have occurred, either. Bill could not accept that the wizard who had destroyed the lives of so many had finally met his end via his own Killing Curse. It was too good to be true. His wildest dream could not have become a reality at last. Yes, he had been working toward this day for the past two years, but he had never honestly considered that it would actually come. He had not dared to hope that it would come.

Finally, when he began to hear screams, cheers, and applause break out all around him, Bill realized that You-Know-Who, terror of the Wizarding world for so long, was really gone forever, and he would never return this time, as he had last time. The rising sun that proved that heaven smiled down upon their new era sparkled in the windows, as everyone, Bill included, raced at their savior, to praise him, clap his shoulder, shake his hand, or hug him.

Once Harry had struggled out of the knot of people that had almost trampled him, nearly killing him in their joy, and accomplishing what You-Know-Who had failed to achieve, all those who had resisted You-Know-Who filed into the Great Hall, where McGonagall announced that they could have a breakfast feast made up for them in no time.

Suddenly, Bill remembered something that put a damper on his jubilation. Tonks, Remus, and Fred were dead, and nobody had told Charlie yet. Charlie couldn't walk into the Great Hall to see the dead faces of his brother, and the woman he loved without any warning. Frantically, Bill scanned the multitudes for his burly sibling, and was relieved when he spotted him not far away. Elbowing his way through the hordes of beings shoving their way into the Great Hall, Bill snatched his brother's muscular upper arm, and with difficulty, extricated him from the crowd.

"Can I have my arm back, as I might need it again someday?" inquired Charlie, a tad irritably, as Bill dragged him over to a deserted corner on the far side of the hall, still clutching his upper arm. "If you want a souvenir, you can ask Harry for his arm. I'll bet that's more valuable than mine is, anyway, seeing as I never went into professional Quidditch."

"Oh, shut up." Bill wrinkled his nose up at his sibling, as he released the other man's arm. "I don't want a souvenir, because I don't reckon that I'll be having too much trouble remembering this day."

"Wonderful," Charlie mumbled, "so would it be fine by you if we entered the Great Hall, and got our hands on some food, before it's all taken?"

"In a moment," promised Bill, "I have something to tell you."

"Go on," Charlie ordered when he paused, trying to devise the best way to explain to his little brother that he would never again be able to spend time like this with Fred or Tonks. Damn it, why did death have to be so impossible to tell somebody about?

"You're not going to like it," he warned.

"I never like what you have to say," snorted Charlie, "so I'm used to that by now."

"Fred, and Tonks are—are—" Bill could feel himself choking up, and that was not an auspicious omen, because he could not lose his composure now, not in front of his younger brother, even if it was the younger brother he was closest to. He recollected the look of disbelief on Percy's face when he had seen Bill cry, and he could not inflict that upon Charlie—he just couldn't. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he concluded, "They're dead, Char. I'm so sorry, but they're gone." Great, despite his best efforts, the tears were welling up in his eyes, as he finished, which meant that he had failed yet again in his duties as an older sibling.

"I don't believe you." Charlie's fist raised, as though he longed to sock Bill in the jaw, but was only just managing to restrain himself. "You're joking around with me, and it's not funny. How would you like if I said that about Fleur, huh? I bet you wouldn't be laughing. Well, don't expect me to chuckle when you joke about Tonks dying--"

"I'm not joking," Bill cut in, feeling as his father must have felt when he had told his oldest son that Remus and Tonks had perished, and Bill had refused to accept the truth. He felt incredibly sympathetic to his dad's plight now, because it tore at your heart to be the bearer of bad news, and it was even worse to have to insist upon the grim reality, when it would be so much easier to let the person you loved continue to delude themselves. "I wouldn't make light of the death of our friends, and our family members. That's not humorous at all."

"Then you must be fibbing, in that case!" Charlie shook his head vehemently, employing the exact same argument that Bill had when he had denied Tonks' and Remus' passing. With a jolt, Bill remembered how his dad had commented once that he and Charlie were very similar personality-wise, and he thought that Mr. Weasley would never know just how right he was, and how much that similarity was killing Bill at the moment.

"I wouldn't lie about something like this, either," Bill informed him, as gently as he could. He knew the words might have the power to shatter the other man, and he didn't want them to do so.

"I don't believe you!" With another wild shake of his head, Charlie pushed him away, and darted into the Great Hall with Bill, who wished to be at his side when he discovered the truth of Fred and Tonks' deaths, hot on his heels. However, when he spotted the corpses of Fred and Tonks, Charlie froze, stumbled over to stand between them, and then knelt upon the marble floor, burying his head in his hands, and refusing to look up, even when Bill strode over and crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Both of them were blind to the celebration that engulfed the Great Hall, as everyone sat down at the House tables that had been set up once more, in a jumble, paying no mind to divisions of House or species, and began to wolf down the foods nearest them, talking excitedly about their victory over You-Know-Who.

Finally, Charlie glanced up at Bill with an expression of such anguish that it seared him, scarred his heart forever. "I loved them," he whispered in a broken voice, jabbing his hand first at Fred, and then at Tonks. "I loved them."

Bill considered pointing out that Charlie had claimed the night before he wed Fleur that he did not love Tonks, but thought better of it, deciding that his brother's grief was too raw for such mocking. In the end, all he said was, "I know."

"At every party, he laughed the loudest," muttered Charlie, his eyes fixed upon Fred. "Who would have thought that he would have been the first to die? He was always so—alive, what with his constant poking fun at others, and blowing things up, that I never thought that he could just die so young. I thought I would have him forever."

"Me too," Bill admitted, surprised at how Charlie, who was not exactly a wordsmith, had expressed his feelings better than he ever could have hoped to do, "I'm the eldest, and so, when I did think about any of us passing on, I figured I'd go first."

"Don't say that." Charlie shuddered. "I'm not a fan of the idea of you dying."

"I'm not, either." If the circumstances had been different, Bill might have grinned, but now his face remained grave, as his brother focused his attention on Tonks now, as he continued:

"I had a connection to her that I cannot explain, but it's probably what you feel every time you're with Fleur. I loved her, even if she wasn't the type of beauty you would fall in love with." Charlie stuck out his chin proudly, and repeated, "I loved her. I knew that from the moment I first laid eyes upon her when McGonagall made me sit next to her after I wouldn't shut up in Transfiguration about the newest Cleansweep to Dan and Matt, and I started babbling on to her about it, too, just to have something to chat about, you see. I suspected that I had made an idiot of myself, but she didn't seem to think so, because she let me sit down beside her in every Transfiguration lesson after that, and soon we hung out together a lot. Then, in our fourth year, we finally started dating, and—" A dreamy look glazed Charlie's eyes as he was transported back to the golden days he had spent with Tonks as a youth, days that now only endured in memory. "Well, we had some grand experiences together. We could stroll about on the grounds, talking for ours, or we could recline in the sun, trying to bully our minds into studying, and sometimes, we would go down into Hogsmeade as a couple on the weekends. I enjoyed racing about Honeydukes with her, competing to find out who could pick up the most wonderful and mouth-watering sweets first, and I loved going into Quality Broom Supplies with her because she was always willing to listen to me yammer on about Quidditch, and we had so many laughs playing around with the prank stuff at Zonko's, and purchasing some of it. But," a massive sigh rattled Charlie's form, "she dumped me in the middle of a Transfiguration corridor, and I lost her, forever, I thought. Of course, now I realize that I hadn't lost her entirely until death stole her."

"Death is merciless," was the only response Bill could invent to this outpouring of grief. Hopefully, it did his brother some benefit just to talk, because Bill was not confident that he could be of any other comfort than a sympathetic ear. "Though they do say that it is better to have loved and to have lost than to have never loved at all."

Charlie seemingly ignored the second segment of his sibling's comment, and focused on the first, as he reflected, "Time is merciless as well, as it is nothing more than a brutal, but a careless thief who steals what we love the most, but leaves behind the grief."

"But it leaves behind a memory that will never be taken away from you," countered Bill.

"Until I go senile," retorted Charlie, before he hid his head in his palms once again, and observed in a softer voice, "Fred and Tonks were so vibrant that I can't understand how they could die. How can human bodies be so much weaker than their souls?"

"Because one is fleeting, I guess, and the other is eternal," Bill suggested, feeling way out of his depth in this current situation.

Luckily, at that moment, Peeves, the airborne menace affectionately dubbed as a poltergeist, sped into the Great Hall, chanting a victory song that was apparently of his own composition, because it was lame, and possessed the nonsense words that were a trademark of his work:

"We did it, we bashed them," he crooned, whirling down the Ravenclaw table, which, like the other three tables was a jigsaw puzzle of teachers, pupils, families, and house-elves, snatching up a banana, squashing it to illustrate the act of "bashing" the Death Eaters, and then tossing the fruit into the air with gleeful abandon, ignoring McGonagall's scolding as it crashed upon the floor, splashing all over the faces and robes of those nearest.

"Wee Potty's the one," Peeves chanted, holding his thumb and middle finger a centimeter apart to demonstrate the "wee" bit, and then holding up the middle finger on the other hand to illustrate the number one concept, supposedly.

"And Voldy's gone moldy," he sang, swooping down upon the Hufflepuff table this time, and scooping up a butter dish, which he sniffed, pretended to discover it was rancid to show the "moldy" part, and then chucked it up into the air, and it landed in a screaming blonde girl's pigtails.

"So now let's have fun." As Peeves concluded his anthem, he soared over to the Gryffindor table, and threw a handful of apple tarts into the air, and they splattered all over George and Lee Jordan, who had been talking quietly together, and who retaliated by leaping to their feet and tossing spoonfuls of oatmeal at the poltergeist, who blew a raspberry at them, and then broke into a second chorus of his song, and dance routine. This time, a handful of students joined him.

Smiling slightly, Bill eyed Charlie. "Do you want to learn how to dance again, mate?"

"Sure." With what seemed like a considerable effort, Charlie heaved his shoulders up and down in a shrug. "After all, Tonks found Peeves funny when he wasn't bugging her, and Fred was worse than Peeves himself." A gleam shone in the younger Weasley's gaze, and it heartened Bill to glimpse it again. "He and George had a food fight in the Great Hall their first morning here, and they splattered jam all over McGonagall's spectacles. Maybe I should provide the grand finale now."

On that note, Charlie propelled himself to his feet, and meandered over to the Slytherin table, with Bill following behind him. "What are you planning on doing?" Bill asked his brother, as the junior Weasely picked up a jar of strawberry jam, unscrewed the top, and dipped a spoon into it.

"I'm going to throw this jam onto McGonagall's glasses," explained Charlie, lifting the spoon out of the container of jam, and taking aim at his target. "After all, what can she do now that I'm out of school, and she can't place me in detention for the next five centuries?"

"Hmm, maybe transfigure you into a badger like she did to a Death Eater upstairs," established Bill, feigning serious contemplation of the notion. However, Charlie paid this gem no mind, and launched the jam off the spoon. The jam smacked right into the center of its target, Minerva McGonagall's spectacles.

"Which imbecile threw this jam onto my glasses?" she shouted, jumping to her feet, and staring around the chamber for the perpetrator of this outrage. When she registered Bill and Charlie chortling at her reaction, she snapped, "I'm going to murder you both."

"We'd better get out of here," Bill advised his brother, who didn't need telling twice. They each snatched up a roll, a peach, and a pastry, and fled from the room, with pieces of toast and slabs of butter buffeting them, undoubtedly upon McGonagall's command, until they exited the building, and reached the safety of the grounds, where they relaxed under an oak tree for a few minutes before they recollected that their loved ones would never experience any sensation like this again.

Then, their moment of peace was destroyed, as they gazed out at the serene lake, glistening pink, red, and orange in the dawning sun, and the mountains, wishing that they could be innocent schoolboys who knew nothing of death again, but that wouldn't happen, and so they nibbled away at their breakfasts, which didn't taste very delicious now, in silence.

After what seemed like a long time, but probably was only ten or fifteen minutes, Louis strode over to them, and plopped on the grass beside the two Weasleys, offering them each a slab of gum. "Here, this will make you feel better. You'll still feel as though you've been dragged through a bed of thorns, just not backwards."

"Gum is not going to make me feel better, unless you laced it with something pretty strong." Bill shook his head, refusing the proffered stick. Mainly to have something to look at, he stared up at the branches of the oak tree above him, and realized that this was the tree that he had studied with his friends under on crisp autumn days, or pleasant spring days such as this, and the oak that he had enjoyed climbing and jumping off of with Mike, Chris, and Charlie. Funnily, enough, it had seemed bigger to him, then, like a steely black steeple, but that was probably only because he had been physically smaller than. Or maybe the tree had shrunken, become enfeebled from age. Or maybe the gashes on its trunk from the recent battle in the grounds had destroyed it, or fatigued it, making it seem tinier. Anyhow, the transformation in his perception of the oak made him realize that nothing endured—not trees, not love, and not even violent deaths.

"You don't need to lace this brand of gum," Louis explained, interrupting his reverie, shoving a piece of gum into his hand, and handing the other to Charlie. "This is a French chewing gum, and it already has a mild rejuvenenant mixed into it. Like everyone else I knew at Beauxbatons, I l lived off this stuff in my school days."

"Ah, gum, coffee, butterbeer, and candy," Charlie mumbled, wadding the gum Louis had provided him with in his mouth. "I think I survived my fifth through seventh years at Hogwarts on a diet that consisted solely of them."

"Yeah, sugar and caffeine—the diet of champions." Smiling slightly, Bill raised his fist in a faux cheer as he began chewing on his gum, and was taken aback at the sudden flow of energy he felt streaming into him. As Louis had claimed, it didn't heal his wounds entirely, but it certainly served as a decent balm, and, at the moment, that was all he could ask for. He didn't think there was a medicine that had been devised to do away with the grief that accompanied the passing of close friends, and family members, and, even if there had been, he wouldn't have taken it, because he did not want to be anesthetized, as he owed it to Tonks, Remus, and Fred to mourn them properly.

"I'm sorry that your brother died," Louis commented, and Bill thought that perhaps his sentiments had shown on his features. "I know that nothing I say is going to make that better, or easier, or right, and I really wished it hadn't happened."

"So do I," answered Bill, biting his lower lip, "but even naive old me knows that wishes generally don't come true, and when they are granted, they are done so in a manner that makes you miserable."

An uncomfortable expression clouded Louis' expression as he gazed out at the grounds, which, Bill had never noticed before, were filled with elms, chestnuts, and oaks that curved so high that they seemed permanent and never-changing, an untouched, unreachable world of their own, high in space, like the ornamental towers and spires of a cathedral, too lofty to be enjoyed, great, remote, and never useful. Finally, after a lengthy pause, Louis spoke again.

"You and your family are good people, all of you, actually I never thought that there could be that many decent beings on the planet until I met you all," Louis continued, "and I don't understand why something like this happened to you."

"It's not myself I feel sorry for," insisted Bill, and Charlie bobbed his head in agreement, "it's Fred, and Tonks, and Remus I'm mourning about. I've known Tonks for years, because I went to school with her, and everything, and Remus was my best friend ever since I returned to England, and Fred was my brother..."

"If I were a devout Catholic, I could assure you that they're in heaven now," sighed Louis, "but since I'm inclined to be as cynical about my religion as I am about everything else, I'll only promise you this, that your friends and your sibling didn't suffer at the end. They died quickly, I can see it on their faces, and your brother was even laughing as he went. It's better to perish speedily, and laughing, in the case of Fred, then to hang about, struggling to breathe for awhile, and feeling your life systems slowly fail. This is not one of those empty consolations ignorant people like to toss out at funerals and wakes, I swear, because I saw my father die in an agonizingly slow fashion, and he was in so much anguish that even I felt sympathetic to him, although it would have enraged him if he knew it."

Now, Bill was ashamed of himself, because he had not gone to the bother of comforting his friend, as he was comforting him. "I'm sorry your dad passed away, Lou."

"He was getting so old that he creaked every time he moved a blasted muscle," snorted Louis, "his death was far more natural than that of your friends' or Fred's. They were young, and healthy, and should have lived longer. It makes more sense to grieve them, then to mourn a man who lived a long life, and accomplished everything he wanted, I'm sure." He cleared his throat, and then went on, "But I still have to attend his funeral and wake, and work out a few things pertaining to his will, and make certain that my mother has a place to live and someone to care for her, as she was really attached to my father, for some bizarre reason beyond my comprehension, and I don't desire her to decide to follow him to the grave. I'll try my best to be back here for your brother's wake, and funeral, though."

"You're a good man," Bill remarked as the Curse-Breaker pushed himself to his feet. "I'll send Nekhebet to you with the details once I'm aware of them."

"I'm not a good man, for I'm merely not as dreadful as most people, but given how horrible most beings are, that is hardly a recommendation," scoffed Louis. "I'd better get going now, though, because I have much to contend with in my native country." Studying Hogwarts one last time, he added, "I prefer my alma mater to this school, as Beauxbatons has far prettier grounds, and is decorated with considerably more taste."

"Well, there has just been a major battle fought on campus," Bill reminded him dryly, as Charlie scowled, "and so many of our plants and trees have suffered some regrettable damage, and the rooms in the castle have abruptly been redecorated in what Percy terms as the 'Brutish Look,' meaning that now probably isn't the best time to make such judgments."

"Beauxbatons is still more beautiful," replied Louis, as he set off across the lawns, toward the gate, where he could safely Apparate back to France. "Just ask your lovely wife, and she'll tell you."

"She already has," Bill called after him.

"Then listen to her, because she knows what she's talking about, as she had to spend one year in this awful place," hollered back Louis, reaching the gate, and Apparating before Bill could retort.

"You have a really aggravating friend," grumped Charlie, glowering after Louis.

"Yes," conceded the older Weasley, "but he is loyal, and would stand beside me until the bitter end, and that counts for a lot, I'm starting to realize, and he does grow on you, after awhile, once you comprehend that he is all bark, and no real bite."

"If you say so." Despite his words, Charlie still eyed the place where Louis had vanished into thin air skeptically. "But I'm still glad that my buddies in Romania aren't like that."

"So am I," chuckled Bill, "as I don't suppose that this world could really hold more than one Louis."

Charlie offered him a twisted smile, and quiet fell between the two brothers again, who were watching the sky as day broke about them in the dome that was the heavens above, where Fred, Remus, and Tonks hopefully were beaming down upon them, even now.


	75. Chapter 75

Fly Away

Disclaimer: If it reminds you of something you've read about in Harry Potter, the genius and the idea and everything is all J.K. Rowling's, as you've probably figured out by now. The hymn is not mine, either.

Author's Note: Some reviewers have been asking me how far I'm planning to go with this fic, and the short answer really amounts to an aggravating "I don't know." Initially, I had actually been thinking of stopping this fanfiction after Bill left for Egypt, but, by that time, enough people were interested in what happened to him after he departed England that I felt I had to continue, and so I did, and before I knew it, I was entering the heart of the Harry Potter books themselves. I'm happy that I did so, because I think that if this story is a "coming of age" of sorts, you don't necessarily "come of age" the instant you graduate and get a job. (Parents, am I right?)

Then, I was thinking that I should drop the story for lack of a better word after Victoire's birth, for the full circle effect. (Yes, I do have an obsession with circles.) Now, though, I'm not sure. Some people would like me to go further with the story, and I would be lying if I said that I didn't have a couple of cute little plot bunnies bouncing around where other people have brains, but I don't know how they'll turn out on paper (Well, actually, on the computer, but on paper sounds better), and I don't know if I could continue coming up with fresh ideas until Bill's children grow up, or where else a good stop point would be. (Victoire's wedding to Teddy, lol?) Anyway, to make the long story short, I'm seeking your opinion about how far you'd like me to go, and, if you'd like me to go beyond Victoire's birth, then how much farther you think would be good. I'm warning you, if you want me to go farther, you might have to put up with my occasionally needing help coming up with ideas for chapters, and stuff. So, if you have an opinion, even if you haven't reviewed, and just have my story on your alerts or favorites list, and have been keeping track of where it is going, I urge you to share it in a review. Thanks in advance. This is why I love reviewers. They make executive decisions for me when I can't, and that's why I live in a democracy, or republic, if you want to nitpick.

By the way, next chapter is Fred's funeral. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about him, but this chapter got to be long enough that I figured I could write them separately. Also, "Momento Mori" is Latin for "Remember you will die."

--

The Circle of Life

When the party at Hogwarts celebrating You-Know-Who's final defeat finished at around noon, Bill and Fleur returned to Shell Cottage with Dean and Luna. As soon as they arrived, they all collapsed into their beds without even bothering to change into their pajamas, exhausted, and only just now realizing how many hours had passed since they last slept, fell immediately into near comas.

At six o'clock in the evening, Bill was awakened when his wife shoved herself out of bed, mumbling something about getting supper for them all. Not feeling exactly hungry, because he had eaten a decent amount of food at Hogwarts during the celebration, he rolled over, and slipped back into a slumber until Fleur shook him up an hour later, and dragged him downstairs along with Dean and Luna, both of whom appeared bedraggled.

As the four of them settled down to consume their green salad and chicken, Fleur addressed the two teenagers, "Now zat you 'ave 'ad some sleep, if you want, you can pack up your belongings tonight, and zen you can send an owl to your parents, telling them where to pick you up. I imagine zat you can be back 'ome with your families by zis time tomorrow. I would offer to take you 'ome tonight, but zat could be dangerous, as zere are bound to be Death Eaters still out zere. It is safer to travel about in daylight."

For several moments, Dean and Luna just stared at Fleur, obviously jarred by the notion of returning home again after so many months away from their families, who they had probably resigned themselves to never seeing again, and Bill himself was somewhat surprised at the idea. At first, he did not comprehend his own astonishment. Then, he realized with a jolt, that he had grown accustomed to having Dean and Luna around, and that Shell Cottage would feel empty without them. Well, that just proved that he and Fleur had best get to work making children to fill the cottage again, he decided, smiling at the notion.

"I'll do that, thanks," agreed Dean, spearing a bit of lettuce and tomato. "Mum or Dad will probably be able to drive over here and collect me by noon or something."

"I'll tell you when Daddy says that he can Floo over to get me," Luna added, chewing on her chicken dreamily, "and I'll ask him to bring one of our Nediji claws along with him as a present for your hospitality."

"That won't be necessary," Bill reassured her quickly, figuring that the Nediji claw might in actuality be a poison-coated claw of some lethal magical creature that he most assuredly did not want in his house. "We were more than happy to take you in. There's no need to give us a gift or anything."

Luna ignored this, or perhaps her mind had just sailed off to deal with a more interesting subject matter, such as one of her non-existent magical creatures, or another one of her crazy theories about Ancient Rune reading, which might explain why she was humming softly to herself, as she absently shoveled chicken and salad into her mouth. After a brief interval of silence, she focused her protruding, moon-like eyes upon Dean, and asked, "Would you draw me a picture of a Nediji?"

"Why?" Dean arched his eyebrows at her, as he bit into what resembled a whole chicken leg.

"Because, spending these past few weeks with you was almost like having you for a friend, and I rather liked that sensation, and so I would like to have something to remember it by," established the girl with her customary placid bluntness, completely oblivious to how awkward this comment could make her dinner mates.

"All right, I'll draw you the picture when I'm done packing before I go to bed," Dean conceded, "only I'll need to know what exactly Nediji look like."

"Oh, they're gigantic birds of prey that live in the rainforests of South America, although they are currently endangered by Muggle deforestation in that area, most dreadfully," replied Luna. "Their plumage resembles that of a parrot, but they are at least a meter taller than the largest parrots, and they can swoop down upon everything from jaguars to people, and whip through the air back to their nests on the very top canopies of the forest, and eat them there, and they can use their charms to induce birds to fly into their lairs. They are very dangerous and deadly, but very beautiful."

"As are most attractive things," Bill remarked, winking at his spouse, who scowled at him in response, "ever since the Greek Sirens."

"Yes," affirmed Luna, nodding, "and the Sirens are still roaming about the Mediterranean, you know."

"Really?" Bill could not quite keep the skepticism out of his tone, despite his best endeavors to. "I read that they evolved into mermaids and—" Here, he winked again at Fleur, who glowered at him once more—"Veela around the time of the foundation of Rome."

"They did," explained Luna, her calmness belying the fact that she was casually contradicting the studies of many who made their living examining magical creatures, "but just because an organism evolves into something else, that doesn't mean that all of the old species died out. That's like saying that if we came from monkeys, monkeys shouldn't be around, but they are."

Bill considered pointing out that humans shared a common ancestor with monkeys, and, therefore, were more like siblings, rather than offspring, of monkeys on the evolutionary chain, and that the common ancestor of humans and monkeys was probably not roaming about in the rainforests of Africa, but thought better of it. Let Luna believe what she wanted. Now that the war was over, there was time for fantasy and faith. Besides, he, like the other occupants of Shell Cottage, had learned that, despite the fact that Luna was a Ravenclaw, there was no such thing as rational debate with her, because nothing would persuade her once her mind was made up, and she had determined that, like Nediji, Greek Sirens existed currently.

They ate the rest of their meal in quiet, and then went back upstairs, where Luna and Dean packed their bags with Bill and Fleur's aid, and then sent Nekhebet off to their parents, telling them where they could pick them up tomorrow. While he waited for his parents to answer his letter, Dean sat down at the table, and pulled out his sketch pad. His head bent over the paper, he began to draw the sweeping outline of a bird.

First Luna, who was also waiting for a reply from her dad, drifted over to plop into the seat to his right, gazing down at his parchment, as though she was bewitched. Not long after that, Fleur and Bill stepped over to stand behind the lad, who was hunched over his work, and did not appear to notice them. Bill's breath caught as he watched, spellbound, as the rough, light outlines that had indicated the vague dimensions of a massive bird and its beak started to take shape. The feathers appeared, looking so real that Bill wished to reach out and stroke them. Then, the claws were drawn, so sharply that Bill rubbed his wrist involuntarily, imagining what it would be like to have those pincers shut about that delicate region of his body, piercing his flesh. After that, the beak became more pronounced, and Bill envisioned it gobbling up a human or jaguar with practiced ease, first devouring the neck, and then the rest of the being. He shuddered at the notion, and, then, recognized that Nediji were real, or, at least one was. Dean had made it real, with just a few swipes of his charcoal, and Bill was still at a loss to explain how the boy had managed to transform a hundred flat lines across a paper into a fearsome bird of prey. All he knew was that Dean had talent as an artist, and, now that the war was over, he should be able to cultivate it properly somehow.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a handful of minutes, Dean pulled back to examine his sketch, and frowned at it, with the critical nature every true artist displayed toward his creation. Then, he shrugged, and muttered, "It could have been better, and it could have been worse, I suppose." Handing the picture to Luna, he added, "Sorry I didn't have my colored pencils with me, otherwise I could have done it in color, but you can only lug about so many things when you're on the run from Death Eaters."

"It's all right," Luna assured him, beaming down at the sketch. "I shall treasure it forever, and when I get home I will put it safely in my bedroom with all my other valuables."

"You don't have to do that." Dean flushed.

"She probably should," cut in Bill, "as it will probably be worth a ton of Galleons someday."

"As an antique, possibly," scoffed Dean.

Before anyone else could retort, Nekhebet rattled upon the window pane, demanding entry, and Bill crossed the kitchen to admit her. Hooting a greeting to him, she flew over to the table, perched herself upon it, and held her claw out to the two teenagers, who each removed a note from it.

"Daddy says he will Floo over here at eleven to fetch me, and he promises that he will bring you the Nediji claw, which he recommends that you use as a paperweight," Luna announced when she had finished reading the scroll her father had sent back to her.

"And my mum writes that she can pick me up sometime between twelve-thirty and one o'clock tomorrow," Dean added, "which basically means that she'll be here sometime between one and one-fifteen, as she is always running behind the time."

Bill intended to chuckle at this, but it emerged, instead, as a yawn. When he glanced at his wristwatch, he saw that it was only half past ten. Obviously, he was still trying to recover the sleep that the final battle had deprived him of. Ah, well, sleep wasn't such a horrible thing, in fact, it was one of God's greatest blessings, and now would probably be an excellent time to take advantage of it. Yawning again, he bid good night to the others, and went back upstairs to bed. He had just been about to drift off to dreamland when Fleur slipped into bed beside him, as Dean and Luna could be heard mounting the stairwell.

The next morning, Xeno Lovegood arrived at eleven via the Floo Network, which was now safe to utilize as Kingsley Shacklebolt was temporary Minister of Magic, and he hurried over to hug his daughter. Once he had been reunited with his child, Xeno offered the Nediji claw to Fleur, who was nearer, and declared, "My darling Luna informs me that you and your husband have taken excellent care of her these past few weeks, and I appreciate that more than you will ever know." Here, Xeno swallowed, and then went on, "I brought you a Nediji claw. I hope that you will treasure it, as it is very expensive, and I would advise that you use it as a paperweight, as it is especially well-suited to that task in my experience."

"Zank you." Fleur accepted the claw, and forced a smile. "My 'usband and I appreciate ze gift. We will be very careful with it."

"Wonderful." Xeno Lovegood gave her a satisfied nod, and walked back over to his daughter. "Come on, Luna dear, let's get back home so that I can make you a pot of Freshwater Pimplies soup, cold, of course, because it is summer, and an iced infusion of Gurdyroots."

With Luna babbling on about how much she loved this soup and drink that Bill had never heard of, and, oddly enough, had no desire to ever become more familiar with because they sounded as revolting as goblin cuisine, the two Lovegoods tossed a handful each of Floo Powder into the fireplace, and then walked into it, heading back to their home.

When he was sure that they were out of earshot, Bill leaned toward his wife, and muttered, "Speak for yourself next time, since I really don't care for the Nediji claw."

"Well, neither do I, Monsieur," she snapped, "but it is ze thought behind it zat counts."

"Then, we'll be really thoughtful, and reuse it next time we have to attend the party of someone we don't like," he teased.

"I'm not even going to dignify zat with a response." She rolled her eyes at him, striding toward the kitchen to throw together lunch sandwiches for them and Dean.

"You just did," he reminded her, as he followed her into the kitchen, and crossed over to the refrigerator, and removed a jug of pumpkin juice. As he started to pour four goblets of juice, he continued, "You can't really be thinking of storing that in our house. Like the Horn of the Crumple-Horned Snorckack, that could turn out to be highly combustible."

"If we are concerned zat it is dangerous," she riposted, taking out the ham and cheese and putting them on slices of wheat bread, "zen we ought not to give it to anyone else."

"Ah, so you don't have a problem with recycling gifts anymore," he noted with mock seriousness, as he placed the drinks at the table. "It's nice to know that I'm having a positive influence on my beloved spouse."

"One day I will murder you, you know," she educated him, completing the sandwiches, and putting them upon the table, before raising her voice, and calling for Dean to come downstairs for lunch.

"I'm not too worried about that," Bill responded in kind, as they both heard the unmistakable sound of Dean thundering down the steps with the male adolescent drive to consume food at a rate that would make most pigs ashamed, "because, according to most studies, it is men that are far more likely to commit a crime of passion like that. Actually, men in general are more likely to commit violent crimes, so it really is you that has to worry."

Before Fleur could counter this, Dean darted into the kitchen, and plopped into his chair, and she seemed to decide that it was her obligation as a hostess to steer the conversation away from homicide to more suitable meal time topics. Not long after they had finished eating and washing the dishes, and carrying Dean's luggage downstairs to the front door so that it would be simple to grab when Dean's mother arrived, the doorbell rang, and Dean opened the door to find his mother standing upon the opposite threshold. After hugging and kissing her son, and giving Fleur a tin container of chocolate chip cookies as a thank-you, Mrs. Thomas departed with Dean.

Once Dean had left, Bill discovered that, as he had suspected, Shell Cottage felt suddenly empty, too quiet, and drained of life. It was as though the place had come to life when the teenagers were crowding it, and now it was in decline, but that was nonsense, of course, because he and Fleur had been happy here alone, and they would be happy here by themselves for awhile, especially now that the war was over, and they could be certain that they would have much more time to spend together.

"It feels kind of weird without them here," Bill remarked to Fleur, reaching into the container of cookies, and withdrawing one, which he took an enormous bite out of, and judged it to be fresh and chewy, the best kind of chocolate chip cookie.

"I miss zem, too," she murmured, nibbling away at a cookie of her own. "We'll 'ave to adapt to life without zem, as we'll 'ave to adjust to life without ze war, I suppose."

"The second one shouldn't be so bad."

"I don't know about zat," she argued, and for a minute, Bill was afraid that she would disturb their moment of tranquility by reminding him that Fred, Remus, and Tonks were dead, and he should not be having fun of any kind now that they never would again, but she chose to keep the tone of the proceedings light, as she added soberly, "because we'll 'ave to go back to work again soon." She didn't say it, but it still hung in the air anyway, the words, "After Remus, Tonks, and Fred are buried."

Choosing to pay no mind to the words that floated unsaid between them, he observed with a sigh, grabbing and biting into a second cookie, "Yeah, that means I'll have to fight the battle of getting up at the crack of dawn every day to slave away at Gringotts, and the only weapons I'll have in my daily struggle will be a cup of black coffee and a morning shower."

"Life is a war zone," she grinned, and swatted his hand out of the jar when he attempted to snatch up another cookie. "Only the strong survive."

"Sometimes not even them," Bill mumbled, thinking of Fred, Remus, and Tonks lying as cold as ice in the Great Hall. They had been some of the strongest people he had known, and yet, their life had faded away from them in a handful of seconds, displaying plainly just how fragile, just how precious, the life force flowing inside everyone was, because it could ebb away into nothing without so much as a moment's warning.

This remark destroyed the pretense, and they both sat down silently on the sofa, staring off into space, remembering the dead.

The next day, the day of the double funeral and burial of Remus and Tonks, broke with a cool effulgence, not yet giving into the warmth of the blazing sun as it would later on, and there was a breath of widening life in the morning air, something impossible to detail, an oxygen intoxicant, a shining paganism, some odor, or just some feeling that was so hopelessly promising that Bill, who had been awoken early by his alarm clock so that he would be dressed and ready for the rites at the appropriate time, could do nothing more than flop back onto the mattress he shared with his wife, on guard against the slits of rising sun that sliced their way first through the blinds and then into his heart.

He did so, because it was difficult for him to recollect in the heady and sensual clarity of such a morning that Tonks and Remus, and Fred were dead, and were never coming back, unlike Harry Potter, who, alone, could defy death, as Jesus had done so many centuries ago in Galilee, and it made him want to burst out crying from stabs of fruitless joy, and intolerable promise, because he knew of far too much pain for this beautiful world.

Until now, he realized with a pang, he had welcomed each day as though it were a new life on some level, where all past failures and problems could be erased, and all future possibilities and delights were open and available, to be achieved possibly before nightfall, but now he understood that each morning merely reasserted the problems of the previous night, and that sleep merely suspended everything, rather than mending it. Then, he raged at God for giving them such a gorgeous day, when the heavens should have been pouring, shedding tears for the injustice and cruelty that had cut the lives of Tonks, Remus, and Fred short, instead of beaming down upon them all.

With these bitter thoughts racing through his head, he shoved himself out of bed, and dressed alongside Fleur, before Apparating with her to the appointed grave site, where the service would be said for Tonks and Remus.

On such a glorious spring day, it was easy to convince yourself that everything was finally right in the world, he thought as he arrived on the burial grounds along with his wife. You-Know-Who had finally been vanquished forever just a few days ago by the Boy Who Lived, and who was still alive after his confrontation with evil incarnate, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had been appointed temporary Minister of Magic, and had ordained that all the innocents who had been locked up in Azkaban be freed, something that had reportedly been finished a day ago. Aurors were capturing Death Eaters every day, and those who had been Imperiused were regaining their own wills. All in all, it should have been one of the happiest days of Bill Weasley's life. And it was, because the brave new world he and the rest of the Order had worked so hard to realize was here at long last.

Yet, his joy was hampered by all those who would never see the dream that they had paid the ultimate price for come to be. His optimism at the prospect of a dawning era was tempered with sorrow for those who had been only hours away from witnessing You-Know-Who's defeat, and being there for the formation of a better world, when they had died.

The faces of Remus, Tonks, and Fred swam in Bill's mind like fish in a sea, and caused him agony with every beat of his heart, because theirs no longer functioned. He had every intention of moving on, because he understood that they would want him to do so, as life was too short to let anything, even grief at a loved one's passing, prevent you from experiencing it, but he would never forget them, and their sacrifices. They would always hang inside him, and their presence would make him a stronger, wiser, and nobler man. In his own way, he would find a manner to absorb some of their best attributes so that he could give them life again by allowing them to live through him. After all, what was the purpose of love if it could not recall, in some fashion, the dead to life?

He was dragged out of his musings, back to the burial of Remus and Tonks, side-by-side, that was taking place in a beautiful cemetery in the middle of the countryside. The bucolic surroundings, with the blossoming, fragrant flower beds, manmade ponds spaced at even intervals with their lily pads, and the stone benches, should have been soothing to him, but, instead, they chilled the marrow in his bones, because the fact that nature could persist in being lovely without pausing to grieve at the loss of life, proved just how indifferent nature was to the fate of humanity, and displayed just how little an individual life mattered in the scheme of things.

Perhaps, though, he was biased by the fact that he loathed cemeteries, since they always reminded him that someday, he, like the thousands of people buried and rotting in the ground beneath his feet that he could hardly bear to stand upon, would perish. Every arching tombstone seemed to be pointing an admonishing finger at him, warning him "Momento mori." Every inscription of the years on the plaques commemorating the deceased made him wonder what the second year listed on his own grave marker would be.

A sandaled ankle wrapping about his own like a python, and twisting jerkily jolted him back to the present. Gasping, he clutched Fleur's arm to prevent himself from toppling to the earth, which, given the current environs, was definitely not something he desired to occur.

"I find it strangely ironic zat you clasped my arm for support when I am ze one in high heels, and a gentleman would 'old me up, not expect me to, do ze 'olding," she remarked in a whisper, so as to not distract anyone from the hymn, "He Will Raise You up on Eagle's Wings," that Tonks' school friend, Catherine, was singing to the assembly:

"_You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,  
Who abide in His shadow for life,  
Say to the Lord, 'My Refuge,  
My Rock in Whom I trust.'_

_  
"And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,  
Bear you on the breath of dawn,  
Make you to shine like the sun,  
And hold you in the palm of His Hand._

"_The snare of the fowler will never capture you,  
And famine will bring you no fear;  
Under His Wings your refuge,  
His faithfulness your shield. _

_  
"And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,  
Bear you on the breath of dawn,  
Make you to shine like the sun,  
And hold you in the palm of His Hand."_

"I wouldn't have needed your support if you hadn't attempted to trip me," hissed Bill, casually rubbing his wounded ankle against the unharmed one in the vain hope that this would stave off bruising, "and I know that you wouldn't appreciate me implying that you couldn't hold yourself up."

"_You need not fear the terror of the night,  
Nor the arrow that flies by day,  
Though thousands fall about you,  
Near you it shall not come. _

_  
"And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,  
Bear you on the breath of dawn,  
Make you to shine like the sun,  
And hold you in the palm of His Hand._

_For to His angels He's given a command,  
To guard you in all of your ways,  
Upon their hands they will bear you up,  
Lest you dash your foot against a stone. _

_  
"And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,  
Bear you on the breath of dawn,  
Make you to shine like the sun,  
And hold you in the palm of His Hand.  
And hold you in the palm of His Hand."_

"I wouldn't 'ave needed to almost trip you if you 'adn't been zoning out throughout ze entire poem zat Karen, ze ozzer friend of Tonks, read, and, as for your second argument, I shall say zat everyone likes to be coddled occasionally." Fleur shrugged as Catherine completed the last chorus of her hymn, which had been uplifting and had made Bill feel as if he were indeed soaring through the air, unfettered by the petty problems that plagued the rest of mankind, at peace and secure in the love and care of some higher power, although the sensation did wear off quickly once the song terminated.

Once Catherine had concluded her hymn, and there was a brief pause in the rite as the priest stepped forward to lead the congregation in the final prayers over Remus and Tonks, Bill reached out a hand, and squeezed the shoulder of Charlie, who had been standing on his left side throughout the ceremony, tears flowing down his cheeks as he tried to release all the overpowering emotions he felt for Tonks, and murmured, "I'm terribly sorry, Char."

"Don't say that," responded Charlie, shaking his head, a touch of bitterness in his voice. "Sorry is the lamest word there ever was, as it changes nothing, and you didn't kill her—or Remus, for that matter."

Before Bill could reply to this comment, the priest had settled before them all, and advised them "Rejoice for those around you who have died and been born again in Christ, and who will dwell in serenity and security with their Maker forevermore. Do not mourn for them too much, for excessive sorrow at the loss of another reveals greed, rather than love. If you truly loved them, you would find comfort in the knowledge that they are resting happily in heaven, instead of crying about how you wish that they were here beside _you_."

His watery eyes scanned the group of mourners, before he nodded, folded his hands together, and bowed his head. Everyone mirrored him, as he ordered, "We shall recite the 'Our Father' and then a 'Hail Mary.'"

Once those prayers had been said, he stood before Remus' coffin, and made the Sign of the Cross over it. Then, he did the same over Tonks', as Charlie sobbed with more intensity than ever.

Perhaps it was the sound of Charlie's elevated cries that prompted little Teddy Lupin to wail, his hair transforming from sandy brown to hot pink in his distress, because the baby boy could not possibly comprehend what was happening. There was no way he could understand that he would never be hugged, kissed, or picked up by Mummy and Daddy ever again. Probably young Teddy did not even fully understand the concept of Mummy and Daddy. And he couldn't even cry out for them, as he could not even talk yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill watched Harry relieve Tonks' mother, Andromeda, whose sorrow was beyond tears now that she had lost her husband and only child to death and Death Eaters within a few short months, of Teddy, and carry the young Metamophmagus over to a bench thirty feet away, his own jade eyes moist. As Harry situated the boy on his lap, and began crooning pacifying noises, Bill's stomach dropped as Ginny strode away from the crowd, and plopped down beside Harry, putting her hand on his knee, as she screwed up her face in grotesque configurations to Teddy's amusement.

The manner in which Potter was gazing at his sister, and the way in which she returned his regard, told Bill more effectively than words that Potter was contemplating the children he could have by Ginny, and she did not seem to deem this notion objectionable...Ouch, damn it, Fleur had almost tripped him a second time.

"Did I explain to you just how much I hate you?" he grumbled, scowling at her, as the priest passed around roses, instructing everybody to select two, so they could place one each on Tonks' and Remus' coffins before the gravediggers lowered them into their final resting places.

"No, normally you babble on about 'ow much you love me, you idiot, but zis is a welcome change," she snorted, as they both surged forward with the others to lay their crimson roses on first Remus', and then Tonks' coffins.

"Good bye, old man," Bill muttered, gingerly placing his flower on Remus' coffin. "I'll miss you."

It was the truth, put succinctly. He would miss the other man's focus, dedication, intelligence, his voice, his slight smile, and the way they could sometimes communicate with just a glance. He would miss all the experiences that he could have had with Remus after this war had ended. He would miss how their friendship could have been further refined. For the rest of his life, he would think something, pivot to share it with Remus, and then remember suddenly that he couldn't do so, because Remus was dead, and every time would bring fresh agony.

Tears welling up in his eyes, Bill continued onto Tonks, and whispered to her, as he dropped his rose on her coffin, "At least you'll be forever youthful and beautiful."

He had just added himself to the horde of beings, which included a McGonagall who was blowing her nose into her handkerchief, a less calmer than usual Kingsley, and a wailing Karen being rubbed on the back by Catherine, and the Weasley clan, going down to an inn Andromeda had booked for the reception, when he halted abruptly, noticing a solitary presence by Tonks' tomb. After informing Fleur that he would be down at the reception in a moment or so, he hurried over to the redhead standing beside the newly dug grave.

"As Dumbledore would say, death is nothing more than the next great adventure," he observed, patting Charlie's powerful upper arm.

"She could have had more adventures here before she went out to the out-of-this-world ones," grumbled Charlie. Then, after a few seconds' uncomfortable silence, he bowed his head in contrition. "I shouldn't have made that comment."

"To grieve is human," Bill reminded him gently.

"To overcome your grief is to be brave," retorted Charlie. His tone milder, he reasoned, "Tonks had a great life—like Fred, she crammed more into her short, vibrant life than many people do in a long one. Sp proud to live, and proud to die for what they believed in. They were like flashes of lightning in a summer sky. Anyway, I should be grateful that God granted me time with her, and thank him for creating a soul so beautiful that even He was compelled to call it home quickly. I should be happy to know that she's gone on to bigger and better things."

"It's hard to do that when you love her."

However, Charlie ignored his brother's statement. "Did she lo—" he began, and faltered, when he was unable to choke out "love," and then, resumed, gesturing at Remus' coffin, "Was she—happy—with him?"

"As merry as anyone can be in the middle of a bloody war." Bill nodded.

A thousand pound weight was removed from Charlie's broad shoulder, and a bit of the grief lining his features faded. "That's all I ever wanted for her, you know, that she be merry, although I did wish that she could have been happy with me forever, but that didn't happen, and I reckon that it wasn't meant to. It doesn't matter, though, that it didn't, because, as the preacher was getting at, love is different from possession. I loved her. That's enough for me."

"Should we join the reception, in that case?" inquired Bill, after a moment's quiet.

"Sure," Charlie agreed, and the two of them turned their backs on the coffins together, and set off toward the reception.

The day after Tonks and Remus were buried, the doorbell of Shell Cottage rang at around noon. Since Fleur was busy with baking a bunch of eclairs for Fred's wake that would take place tomorrow at the Burrow, Bill went to answer it, and was astounded to find himself standing face to face with none other than Chris Brown.

"Come in, and sit down, if you'd like, Brown," he stated, his voice shorter than usual, because he was not in the mood for another conversation like the last one he had with the man, since he was about to attend the wake of his little sibling the next day, and he had just attended the burial of two of his closest companions yesterday. Sighing, he stepped back, and admitted Chris into his living room, gesturing for him to take the least comfortable seat, figuring that it was small payback for the intrusion upon his grief.

"Something smells delicious," Chris commented, taking the indicated chair, as Bill settled himself heavily in the sofa across from him.

"My wife is making a batch of eclairs for my brother Fred's wake tomorrow," replied Bill coldly, thinking that he was not going to offer this particular guest any food or drink, if that was what Chris was shooting for.

"I'm sorry to hear that your brother passed away." Chris cleared his throat uneasily. "Um, did he die in the showdown at Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Bill kept his manner clipped, because, otherwise, he might cry at the memory of Fred.

"I appreciate his, um, sacrifice, then."

"You talk of sacrifice, but I can't help but feel that you don't understand the meaning of it," Bill dismissed this remark with a wave of his hand, "not the way I do, not the way my wife does, not the way Fred did, not the way all those who fought at Hogwarts did, not the way the people, some of them teenagers, who perished in that fight did. To you, it's just a hollow word that you can throw out when you want others to believe that you give a damn about their suffering."

For a moment, Chris glared at him, his mouth open as though he longed to snap back, but, in the end, all he said was, "I have work tomorrow, otherwise I would attend his wake, but I will contact a florist, and send flowers. Where is the wake being held?"

"At my parents' house, but you needn't trouble yourself when I already know that you could care less that Fred is dead."

"I'll send the flowers," gritted Chris, his cheeks strawberries, as he struggled to control his temper, for some reason. With an effort, he heaved a sigh, and continued with forced pleasantness, "So, you're married, then. I heard a rumor that you were."

"Yeah, I imagine you heard that I married a half-breed," he noted, incapable of preventing bitterness from lacing his tone. "I suspect that's what the Ministry would call Fleur."

"I'm not a bigot," Chris snarled, finally exploding, "my best friend is a Muggle-Born, for Merlin's sake, in case you've forgotten, Weasley! Maybe you don't maintain your friendships with old school buddies, but I do!"

"You do with Mike, you mean," returned Bill dryly, "not with me. Mudbloods are okay for you to risk associating with, but not blood traitors who defy the Ministry."

"I refuse to take responsibility for us falling out, when you were on the other side of the blasted globe for years as soon as you got out of Hogwarts," growled Chris, "so it was obvious that Mike and I meant nothing to you!"

"I wish you had meant nothing to me," Bill informed him softly, "then your betrayal wouldn't have hurt so much."

"If you cared about us, you would've asked how Mike is faring," barked the other man.

"How is Mike doing, then?" Bill arched his eyebrows at him. "I'm listening attentively."

"Oh, we've finally gotten there, haven't we? That's the whole reason I showed up here, actually, because Mike has just been released from Azkaban a couple of days ago, the morning after the battle at Hogwarts, but his lungs and heart have suffered permanent damage from that hell on earth, and he will be at St. Mungo's for at least another week. I've been seeing him every day since he was released from Azkaban and transferred to St. Mungo's for medical attention. Anyway, this morning, when I went to visit him, Mike requested that I ask you to drop by on him for awhile, and I agreed to do so, so here I am, although I shouldn't have bothered to waste my time." Chris leapt out of his chair abruptly. "You'll never come to see him."

"That's not true," Bill, finding it difficult to be angry at Mike when he envisioned his heart battling to tick, and his lungs struggling to absorb oxygen, contradicted him, as he stalked toward the exit, "I will drop by on him this afternoon."

"I hope your visit goes better than mine did with you, then!" Chris exclaimed, slamming the door after him.

True to his word, Bill wolfed down a yogurt and an orange for lunch, explained to Fleur that he had to visit an old friend in the hospital but that he would return in time for supper, and Apparated to the hospital. After getting directions to Mike's room from the irascible, ironically named Welcome Witch, he hurried upstairs, and into Mike's ward, where he was astonished to find the man sprawled on the cot, his chest rising and falling with great effort as he rasped air in and out with the help of a mask affixed on his face. As Bill tentatively approached him, recalling how they had not spoken to each other in over two years, he was appalled to see that Mike's skin was so pale that his blue veins were visible throughout his body.

"Hey, Mike," he greeted him, squeezing the shoulder of the addressed. A shiver traveled up and down his spinal column as he noted that all he could feel was bone covered by a thin layer of frail skin with not a trace of muscle. Mike couldn't be dying, too, blast it! Not after the war had finally ended!

"You came," Mike choked out, his lips twitching upward in what might have been an attempt at a grin.

"That I did." Nodding, Bill yanked over a chair, and seated himself beside Mike, reaching out a hand to take his cold hand in his own warm one.

"Chris—said—you wouldn't." Each word took its toll on Mike, as he fought to get the necessary oxygen to speak to flow into his lungs. "I was—afraid you wouldn't. Afraid I wouldn't—be able to tell you that I remember—everything. How we talked in the common room—how we played hangman in class—how you helped me with homework—how we studied together on the grounds..." Mike heaved as much air into his lungs as he possibly could at this point. "How those were the best days of my life."

"You aren't dying, stop talking like you are," Bill commanded, starting to feel tears well up in his eyes at the memories of his school years. Everything had changed so fast. As Charlie had said, time was a brutal thief who took everything a person loved away from them, and then left them with the grief, the grief of what had been, could have been, and should have been, and that state of grief was the most painful emotional state Bill had ever been in. He couldn't avoid seeing in Mike's azure eyes the bright, sparkling glint of the eagerness and promise of youth in the man's eyes, even as he spotted the watery, anguished, and drained quality of them now, and that cut him, made him mourn for the death of the lad Mike had been, and the Mike he had known.

"I am—dying," protested Mike, coughing up a mound of his own blood, and Bill wiped it off with a tissue from the box on the nightstand beside Mike's bed. "Healers told me—I have about a week left in my ticker and my lungs."

"That's what Chris meant when he told me that you would be here for another week!" Bill gasped, appalled, as he acknowledged the truth he had not wanted to face until this point.

"Yeah." Mike offered a feeble jerk of his head that might have been a nod. "That's why I wanted to see you—before I went. Wanted you to know—that I want you to remember me—as I was—at school. I was a better person, then—I think."

"Don't worry," Bill promised him, "you're already imprinted on my heart forever."

"Good—" Again, Mike coughed up another wad of his own blood, and Bill swept it away. "Then—I won't die, until you do. We—might meet—in heaven again someday."

"Tomorrow is my brother's wake, and the day after is the funeral, but I'll come visit you the day after, and every other day until, you know, until the bitter end. I'm supposed to be your best friend until the death, after all."

"Maybe—you'll make up with Chris," Mike whispered. "I'd like that."

"I'll try." Bill figured that it would be callous to deny a last request of a dying man, and it would be nice to reconnect on some level with Chris after all these years. He needed a new friend in England, anyway, now that Remus had perished.

"Then—I am a man fulfilled." Mike's lips twisted up at the corners in a smile. "My wife had her baby five days ago—named her Natalia. She's pretty—has my hair and eyes. Love her. Pity I can't raise her. Told my wife to remarry so Natalia could have a dad. Hope she will. Hope they'll be happy. Without me."

"Natalia will be your legacy," Bill murmured.

"Yes." Mike's eyes slipped closed. "I'm going to sleep—now. Don't worry—I'll awake—from this one."

Kissing the cool forehead of his old buddy, Bill departed, praying to God to restore life into the other man, and not take another one of his friends away, but whatever the prayer was, it wasn't granted.


	76. Chapter 76

Believing in Tragedy

The day after he had visited Mike in St. Mungo's was the longest one he had ever experienced. At dawn, he woke up, threw on his dress robes, assisted Fleur in putting on her earrings and necklace, and Apparated over to the Burrow in the company of his wife, who was balancing the batch of eclairs she had baked yesterday. Feeling numb, he walked across the yard, and rapped upon the kitchen door. Ginny opened it, tears glittering in her eyes.

"Mum says that you can put the food you brought on the kitchen table," Ginny told Fleur thickly, as Bill squeezed her more tightly than he had ever held her in his life, because he wanted to remind himself that she was physically here, and still alive, unlike Fred, who could only ever be present anywhere in spirit now. "She says thanks, and not to be offended if she doesn't eat any of it. She hasn't eaten much since Fred—you know, left us."

"That won't do, as we can't have her starving to death on top of everyone else who has already died." Detecting the quaver in her voice, Bill, who had released her from the crushing embrace, placed his hand on her shoulder, as Fleur situated the eclairs on the table, and they all left the kitchen together, heading into the living room, where Fred's body was laid out.

Bill debated whether or not he should kneel beside Fred's open coffin, but then decided that he did not have the strength of will to do so, to fix his living eyes once again on Fred's forever empty ones. He would prefer to remember Fred as he had been, rather than as he would look after the life had disappeared from him. So, instead of kneeling beside Fred, he crossed over to the sofa, where Charlie was seated, staring down at a photo album full of pictures of Fred.

"Do you mind if I join you?" he inquired, as he plopped down beside his brother.

"Nah," answered Charlie, as Fleur sat down next to her husband, and Ginny, to Bill's horror, slipped back onto the sofa on the right side of Harry, who slung his arm around her, and pulled her toward him, much as Hermione was comforting Ron, who was gazing down at a Christmas family photograph taken when Bill was twelve with a frozen expression on his face...Now, Ron and Hermione were a cute couple, even if Ron was an idiot at times, but Ginny and Potter was simply not allowed, mainly because Ginny was not permitted to be with anyone, as even the boy who had vanquished You-Know-Who wasn't worthy of her. Why wasn't Bill's dad objecting to the way Potter was touching Ginny, since fathers were supposed to be even more protective of their daughters than older brothers were of their little sisters?

Oh, maybe the fact that Mrs. Weasley was sobbing her eyes out, and yanking her hair in a frenzied fashion on a lounge chair to the right of Fred's coffin, and Mr. Weasley was patting her on the back, murmuring softly in her ear, and striving to prevent her from ripping all the hair out of her scalp, explained why he had not intervened to save Ginny from Potter's attentions. But Bill couldn't murder Potter at a wake, either, and so he returned his focus to the album in Charlie's lap.

When he did, a jolt tore through him. He was gazing down at a pair of three-year-old redheads crouching upon the kitchen floor, banging wooden spoons against drums that were really steel pots and pans, screaming their own nonsense chorus that was probably more racket than lyrics. Oh, yes, he remembered well those days, where the twins would awaken at the crack of day, and clatter down the stairwell into the kitchen, where they would crash wooden spoons upon pots and pans. It had drove him crazy, because by that time he had wanted to sleep later than five or six in the morning, but now he desired nothing more than to hear the cacophony of a dreadful Fred and George band practice taking place in the kitchen. That would mean that his little brother was alive.

Incapable of looking down at the picture of Fred and George's kitchen band any longer, Bill focused his attention to the photograph on the opposite page, which consisted of a four-year-old Fred gliding through the living room on Charlie's (really Bill's) old toy broomstick with George cheering him on the sidelines, and Charlie's muscular frame charging after him. Bill knew that in a few seconds Charlie would catch up to his younger sibling, and shove him of the broom, and probably smack him upside the head, or punch him in the stomach as a reparation, but for now, the suspended tableau was wonderful, and heart-wrenching. Here was Fred, flying a few feet from the ground, laughing without understanding just how limited his remaining time on the planet was, his carefree nature preserved here for eternity long after his earthly vessel had rotted.

Now, Bill began to appreciate why his parents had insisted on taking so many pictures of him and his siblings. Photographs, while also functioning as a source of humiliation in life, served as a source of immortality after death. They jogged the memory of those left behind, stirring up a thousand memories, memories that were all they had left now that Fred's time on earth was up, that had lain dormant in the sea of experience, drawing them to the forefront of the mind. As long as these photos endured, Fred would never truly die.

Perhaps Charlie felt similarly, for he muttered, a peculiar quirk to his lips that might have been a valiant attempt at a smile, "If I had known that Fred would die so young, I would've let him ride my toy broomstick as much as he wished. After all, I didn't need it anymore, as I had moved on to actual brooms by then."

"Come on, that would've taken half of the fun out of stealing it away from you," teased Bill, although there was a hitch in his tone.

"You're right," Charlie agreed with forced levity, "I mustn't forget that Fred was a devil."

"I prefer 'rebel angel,'" the other replied, turning the page, where they saw Fred and George blowing out the seven candles on their Devil's Food Cake in the family garden, and, opposite that, the twins racing after Percy, with Ron darting along after them, and four-year-old Ginny toddling in their wake.

Turning more pages, they flicked through Fred's childhood...Mr. Weasley wrestling with the twins as he had done with Bill and Charlie when they had been younger...two identical redheads jumping on their beds...Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron clustered around their mum as she read them one of Beedle Bard's fables...two red-haired tornadoes beating Bludgers around the knoll where the Weasleys played Quidditch with Charlie...a million static points frozen in time that none of them could ever return to, no matter how much they wanted to now that Fred had flown away to heaven...points in time that when connected made up a lifetime...it was funny how a childhood could seem so long when it was being experienced, but when reflected upon, it appeared entirely too short...Well, he supposed that it never took too long to travel where you had been already.

Just when they had finished looking at the final photo, a Weasley Christmas one where the twins had donned reindeer horns of their own construction in honor of the occasion, three young women with builds of athletes, and stocky Oliver Wood entered the living room. After paying their respects to Fred, the four young adults crossed over to the corner where George was sitting with Lee Jordan.

To Bill's surprise, George wasn't crying, nor was he joking around, as was to be expected. His face was harder than Bill had ever seen it, scarred by grief, and he barely seemed to register the new arrivals, even when Wood clapped him on the back, and the three females kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm sorry Fred died, George, really I am," Wood tried to console his former Beater, his Quidditch voice carrying even in the silent, mourning atmosphere, "but he went putting up a brilliant fight, and that's how he would have wanted to go. He was a Gryffindor, and a Beater to the last."

"Shut up, Oliver," snapped one of the girls, as George turned a blank, glazed glance upon his former captain. To George, she added, "Ignore him. He still believes that everything in life revolves around Quidditch, and can be compared to Quidditch, and I would know, because I'm dating him."

"And I have no clue why I'm dating you, Katie," retorted Wood, "well, if I'm not wanted here, I'll go elsewhere, although you'll find that there are many parallels between life and Quidditch."

With that, he strode over to Percy, who was seated, his head buried in his palms, in the lounge chair in the corner across from George, not speaking with anyone, glancing up at the proceedings, or studying the pictures and photo albums strewn on coffee tables throughout the room, and squeezed the shoulder of his old Hogwarts friend.

However, Percy merely nodded a formal greeting at Oliver after he had jerked in alarm at the other man's touch. Wood made a few attempts to console Percy, but the third eldest Weasley, in what was, for him, an astonishing breach of proper etiquette, just stared off into space, not responding to any of Wood's comments.

In the end, Wood gave up on conversing with Percy, as well, and, glancing around the living room, he spotted Charlie, and walked over to him. He nodded to Bill, whom he hardly knew because of their difference in age, and who nodded back, and addressed Charlie, "Hey, Captain."

"Hello, Oliver," Charlie responded, as the younger Quidditch player tugged over a wooden dining room chair to sit across from him, Bill, and Fleur.

"Wow, a Weasley who will talk to me," observed Wood, grabbing a mint from a nearby coffee table, and popping it in his mouth. "I'm impressed."

"People deal with grief in different fashions," Charlie reminded him. "George has been all closed down, and crying for days, and I'll bet the only reason he isn't bawling now is because he thinks of himself and Fred as one entity, as everyone else did, and you don't cry at your own wake, do you?"

"I don't plan on it." Wood shrugged. "Of course, I haven't really planned much for my wake yet, to be honest."

"As for Perce," Charlie continued, "he's been in that chair ever since we got back from the battle—he sleeps there, and he eats there when Mum can induce him to eat at all. He won't speak to any of us, except sometimes Mum, though he'll sometimes let everybody except Dad pat his shoulder, or back. If Dad tries to touch him, he just pulls away and flinches, like he thinks Dad's going to beat him, or murder him, or something. Of course, he's never been much of a conversationalist."

"What are you talking about?" Oliver contested this final statement. "Percy can go on for hours about most academic areas, if you let him. Actually, that's how I passed Transfiguration, Potions, and History of Magic. I'd just mention that I was interested in learning more about Animagi, eighteenth century goblin rebellions, or Untraceable Poisons, and he'd be off, shooting off a million facts I could use in my essay. In return, I'd put up with his confusion about which ball is a Quaffle, or a Snitch, or a Bludger, and which position is a Seeker, Chaser, Beater, or Keeper."

"That's a weird friendship," noted Charlie, expressing Bill's own sentiments on the matter.

"But a solid enough one." Again, Wood's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. Clearing his throat, he went on, "I suppose you heard that I was made captain of the team after you left."

"Yeah," answered Charlie, "nice one. You deserved it, as you always made longer pre-game speeches than I did."

"Right, well, we won the Quidditch Cup in my seventh year," resumed Oliver, paying no mind to the second half of Charlie's remark, "and the Quidditch Captain, as I'm sure you know, always gets a miniature to keep when his—or her—team wins." Here, he rummaged about in his robes, and then withdrew a golden trophy. "I was going to give this to George, so he could put it by the old team photos of him and Fred, but, due to the fact that he's not listening to a word that comes out of my mouth, I figure that you'd better guard it for now."

"Thanks." Charlie accepted the trophy, and stared at it as though it were the Holy Grail, before eyeing Wood dubiously. "Are you sure about this, giving it up, mate?"

"Of course I am," Wood informed him, hazelnut eyes serious. "I've never been more certain of anything in my whole life. I'll never forget, even when I'm old and gray and a couple more Bludgers have bashed into my head, the exhilaration I felt when I won the Quidditch Cup with my team, and that's the whole purpose of a trophy, after all, to serve as a physical reminder of the victory. Besides, I want to offer Fred something. My mum suggested flowers, but that seemed kind of awkward, considering he's a guy and all, and, anyway, the smell of them always made me nauseous at the wakes and funerals of my grandparents, so I didn't want to inflict that upon other people."

"This is loads better than flowers, anyway." Charlie's tone was somewhat constricted, as if he was afflicted with a sore throat. "You're amazing."

"I'm not." Oliver shook his head vehemently, and his gaze sailed around the room until it was centered upon Fred's coffin. "He was more of a champion than I ever was, or will be, for that matter. He understood that winning in life did not necessarily entail winning on the Quidditch pitch, but rather going through life with a laugh, and spreading that laughter wherever you go, and just living your life so well that when death takes you, it can't help but be a little ashamed at robbing the world of you. It was him and George who lightened up practices by dive-bombing each other, and pretending to topple off their brooms. It was them who eased the tension before matches with their quips. It was them who made every post-game party a blast. It was them who called me out when I was a git obsessed with winning. It was Fred who told me off when a mad Bludger trailed Harry the whole game in his second year, and he refused to let Fred and George shield him the entire time, because I'd been idiotic enough to order him to catch the Snitch or die in the attempt."

"Guess he caught the Snitch, in that case," deduced Charlie with a grin, glancing appraisingly over at Harry, who still had his arm around Ginny, and it was sneaking far too low, in Bill's opinion.

"Oh, yeah, he caught it for us," Wood confirmed, his voice rising slightly with enthusiasm. "And he managed to grab the Snitch on a bucking broom in his first-year, and the only time he failed to get the Snitch was when a group of dementors showed up, and made him fall of his broomstick! Potter's the only Seeker I've ever seen that was better than you. Well, actually, Krum might be able to give you a run for your money, but other than that, you're definitely the best."

"You only say that because you have to be kind to your old captain," chuckled Charlie. "I'm probably nowhere as good as you remember me."

"Don't be modest," snorted Oliver, rolling his eyes. "Even McGonagall was impressed by you, and we all know that it just about kills her to admit anyone is decent at anything."

"Now I know you're lying, because McGonagall hated me, especially after I decided to work with dragons in Romania, instead of for the National Team." Smiling, Charlie leant forward, and gingerly placed the trophy on the table, beside a Halloween picture of the twins dressed up as devils.

"Well, I'd better go," Wood announced somewhat lamely, pushing himself out of his seat. "See you at the funeral tomorrow." With a glance in Harry's direction, he mumbled, "I'd speak with him for awhile, but he seems kind of busy at the moment."

The thought of Ginny being "busy" with Potter made Bill's stomach churn in ire as Wood departed with the three young ladies he had entered with. As Wood and the three young women departed, Kingsley, McGonagall, and Hagrid walked in, Kingsley appearing somewhat uncomfortable, because he was carrying a bouquet of white lilies, Hagrid bearing a glass platter of what Charlie whispered to Bill and Fleur were "rock cakes" that tasted positively revolting, and McGonagall balancing a container of ginger cookies on her hip.

Immediately, Mrs. Weasley, tears still flowing in rivers down her face, rushed over to greet them, and relieve them of their gifts. Once his wife had left him, Mr. Weasley, to Bill's shock, began to weep quietly, apparently unable to restrain himself now that he no longer had to be strong for his spouse.

"Excuse me," Bill mumbled to Fleur and his brother, rising and hurrying over to comfort his dad, despite the fact that he still did not want to believe that the giant of his childhood could cry.

"Dad," he whispered, as he reached his father, and rested a hand upon his shoulder. He wished he could add, "Don't cry," but that did not sound very mature at all, considering it was perfectly rational to grieve when a life like Fred's had been chopped short by a cruel twist of fate.

"Do you think he was joking?" asked Mr. Weasley absently, thinking aloud, as he turned damp eyes upon his oldest son.

"Knowing Fred, probably yes," Bill returned somberly, wanting to be of more help, but not being able to, because he did not know the specifics, which seemed to be a necessity in this situation. However, he needn't have worried, for his dad kept muttering:

"I hope he was when he said that his left buttock still hurt him after that time I spanked him and George for trying to use the Unbreakable Vow on Ron. I don't want to think that I could hurt my son."

"You couldn't hurt a child of yours if you tried, Dad," Bill reassured him, "because you're too soft-hearted. I mean, you can't even de-gnome the garden without feeling sorry for the horrible critters. Now, dry your eyes. McGonagall is approaching, and we should cultivate the image that we're as happy as she is that Fred has passed away. I'll bet she's wishing that Fred had died in his first year, and George along with him."

"Bill!" Mr. Weasley chided.

"Right, sorry, I forgot I shouldn't talk about gambling in front of you or Mum. It won't happen again, I swear. Oops, I'm not supposed to swear, either, am I?"

"That's not what I—" Was all Mr. Weasley had time to hiss before Professor McGonagall and Kingsley stepped up to Fred's coffin to pay their respects. (Hagrid was sitting on the floor beside Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny, sobbing into a handkerchief approximately the diameter of a Muggle circus tent.)

"Here is a Order of Merlin First Class, Arthur," stated Kingsley in his deep, rumbling voice, placing a golden medallion upon the ground below Fred's body, where several bunches of flowers, one from Chris, rested. "I'm issuing one to everybody who perished in the final battle, or in the struggle against Voldemort—" Here, Bill, his father, and McGonagall all grimaced, even though they all knew that You-Know-Who had been defeated, since it was still too much of an engrained habit not to employ the wizard's name, and old superstitions died hard, however Kingsley ignored their reaction—"and that includes your son."

After kneeling down and saying a brief, silent prayer for Fred's soul, Kingsley ambled away from the coffin. For some reason, now that she was standing right before the coffin, McGonagall's composure faltered, and she fumbled with her handkerchief that she had clasped in her hands. "God grant him grace, as he deserves," she established finally in a milder tone than was typical of her.

"I've always been terrible at these ceremonies, especially the ones of my former pupils," she explained, looking somewhat apologetically at Bill's dad. "Always, I see them as they were when I instructed them, rather than as they are after they have left school, and that is always agonizing." At this point, she glanced down at Fred's blank face, and averted her gaze rapidly again, suggesting that she was incapable of bearing the sight that greeted her. "He was clever, creative, funny, and brave, but I had to be stern with him, because he was in my House, and was, therefore, my responsibility, and I fulfill my obligations."

She spun on her heel, and marched off, muttering something about assisting Mrs. Weasley in putting food onto plates.

"So, she does do emotions, after all, I'm amazed," Bill remarked to his father, before heading off to look at another photo album with Charlie and his wife, because, like McGonagall, he found it challenging to gaze down at Fred's lifeless frame for too long, as well, meaning that they now had one thing in common.

The three of them were about halfway through the photo album when Louis arrived, bearing a platter of truffles. Upon catching sight of Bill, Louis hastened over to him, and placed the truffles he had brought on the coffee table closest to them before settling himself on the crowded sofa.

"How are you doing?" Louis inquired.

"Fine," Bill replied. It was all he could force out, because his attention was riveted upon the picture of Fred and George slurping up milk shakes at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, and he felt his lungs tightening on him. Dimly, he realized how ironic it was that a photograph could have so much power over him, but it did, because it reminded him of all the things his little brother would never experience again, and that pierced him like a dagger in the chest.

"It's hard, going to these things," pronounced Louis, with uncharacteristic delicacy, "especially when the one who has died is so young. When the person who has passed on is older than sin, there is always the consolation that he or she lived a full life..."

"Fred lived an action packed life," argued Bill, his spine stiffening at the perceived insult to his sibling. Nobody was going to speak poorly of his little brother now that he was no longer alive to defend himself.

"Yes, I'm sure he did, but he didn't get to go through the natural life cycle," persisted Louis. "That's why it is more difficult to deal with for most people, because all of us have learned to live with the unpleasant knowledge that life is indeed a circle, and that humans, like all other organisms, are born, mature into adults, grow old, and die, and nothing will change that. However, it is very rattling when someone who is young perishes, because it is not according to that pattern, and that is why we feel the loss more, because we can't help but wonder what more that person could have achieved if they had lived longer."

At the moment, Bill could not contemplate this, because he could not dare to, as it would make him consider what life would have been like if Fred had been able to marry, have children, continue his jokeshop with George, and eventually grow old...Fred had always claimed, in jest, at least, that he would like to have a beard as lengthy and white as Dumbledore's when he was an elderly man, and now that would never happen. Unfortunately, Louis did not seem to notice his discomfiture, because his eyes had strayed over to Fred's coffin.

"This reminds me of Matthieu's wake," he commented, more to himself than to anyone else.

"I beg your pardon?" pressed Bill, eager to change the subject. "Whose wake does this remind you of?"

"My old school buddy's." Louis shook his head briskly, as though he were trying to brush away an irksome gnat or mosquito. "He was my roommate and my best friend throughout all our years at Beauxbatons, and he was obsessed with Quidditch."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with caring for Quidditch is there?" demanded Charlie aggressively. Obviously, Bill noted with a slight inner smile, his younger sibling was not fond of his pal. Oh, well, at least the two men would not have to spend too much more time in each other's presence.

"Nope," Louis responded grimly, "there's nothing wrong with Matthieu's liking Quidditch, except, of course, for the fact that it resulted in his death."

"How could he have died?" frowned Charlie, forgetting his distaste for Louis in his bewilderment, as Bill wondered the same thing himself. "Surely, if he was injured, he would have been rushed to the hospital wing, and the school nurse could have handled it, or, worse come to worse, he could have been moved to a hospital. Nobody dies in school Quidditch, for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh, when he toppled off his broomstick, they took him up to the hospital wing, all right, but they released him soon after, saying that nothing had been damaged in the fall. However, that night, they were proven wrong. He died peacefully, and soundlessly, in his sleep, and, when I awoke in the morning to discover him dead, he still had a dream smile upon his cold lips. When they performed the autopsy, they found that he had suffered brain damage in an area about the size of the width of my pinky finger. Pity it turned out to be a critical region, huh?"

"I'm sorry, Lou," murmured Bill, horrified by this chilling tale. Sympathy for his companion flooded him, because he could not imagine rising in the morning as a student at Hogwarts to discover Chris or Mike laying as still as marble upon their mattress. It would have traumatized him for life to say the least.

"I wasn't the one who died." Louis shrugged. "All it did was provide even more of an impetus to leave France, because there was nothing left for me there." Nodding at Fleur, he amended, "Although it is undeniably the best country in the world, as you are well aware, but when you have a family like mine the first thing you want to do after you receive your diploma is escape from them."

"I can't judge you on zat I am an expatriate, as well," grinned Fleur.

Silence fell between the four of them for several minutes, before Louis spoke again, directing his words to Bill again. "I've been thinking."

"I could see how you might believe that to be incredible, but for those of us who do it constantly, that's not a very important tidbit of information," Bill mocked him.

"You're fortunate that I'm too noble to hex you at your brother's wake," growled Louis. "Anyway, my father's death has left me with a sizeable amount of gold, in addition to the wealth I have acquired myself through my years as a Curse-Breaker, and, I have decided that I am getting to old and fragile to go riding about the Sahara on a camel's back. That doesn't mean, though, that I'm quite ready to settle down and play Bingo with the rest of the useless old people waiting anxiously to die so that something exciting can happen to them, which means that I shall have to continue to serve Gringotts, possibly in my native country, or..."

"Or?" Bill arched his eyebrows at him when he paused.

"Or I could work at the London branch with you," Louis completed his musing in an offhand tone.

"You, work in England?" Bill snickered at the preposterous proposal. "What would you eat?"

"I can make my own food, as I did in Egypt." Miffed, Louis stuck up his nose. "And I have more than enough money to settle into a charming house here, or even build my own one, possibly not even too far away from where you live with your beautiful French bride who, as I have said on countless occasions, is far too good for you."

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

"If you don't want me to come, I won't," Louis educated him in an icy voice, "but I thought you might appreciate my presence, because you said your best friend in England had died in the battle at Hogwarts."

"Come, if you wish," smirked Bill, "then you can teach Fleur how to say her 'h' and 'th.'"

"Why bother?" Louis chuckled, as Fleur kicked her husband's ankles forcefully. "She will always have a French accent."

"You don't," Bill reminded him, and Charlie offered a reluctant nod of assent, clearly not keen on having to praise Louis.

"That's because my father insisted upon hiring a tutor to teach me English as soon as I turned four, just as he got a tutor for my two older brothers. He claimed that English was the language of commerce, and, despite the fact that more people speak Mandarin Chinese, the closest thing the world has to an international tongue, so he thought it would be prudent for us to know it." A scowl twisted Louis' face. "I loathed those lessons. English, you know, is a very precise language, loaded with petty distinctions between 'may' and 'can' and 'famous' and 'notorious.' Actually, I hated the language until I met someone worth talking to who spoke it—" he gestured at Bill—" although I still think it is an harsh, ugly tongue, unlike flowing French."

"Yes, and it doesn't abide by its own stupid rules 'alf ze time," grumbled Fleur. "Even ze name of ze language should be spelled with an 'i' instead."

"I suppose it wouldn't be worth pointing out that it would look clownish with an 'i' where the 'e' is." Bill rolled his eyes at Charlie, and the four of them started to look at the photo album again, moving onto pictures of the twins decorating Easter Eggs with their mum's guidance.

If it was possible, Fred's burial was even worse than his wake had been. For some reason, Bill was convinced that burying Fred in an hole in the ground would make him irrevocably dead, but that was folly, of course. His little brother was dead, and nothing anyone did was going to render him more or less so. Dead was dead, any way you sliced it.

In Bill's mind, the only consolation was that it was a gloomy, rainy day, so that it seemed that the whole world was grieving the loss of one of the most vibrant people ever to inhabit it, even if it was only for a tragically short time, time Bill should have treasured more while it lasted.

The blustery wind blew most of the priest's words away from Bill in gusts, but he did not mind, for the bits that were audible to him did not do much to soothe him: "If you find yourself questioning your faith, remember that the same God that took Frederick away from you is the one who first provided him with the breath of life."

Maybe, Bill complained bitterly to himself, as the rain pounded furiously against the red dirt ground where Fred would dwell forevermore, but why the hell would you build something just to destroy it, unless you were a lunatic, and why should anyone worship a maniac? And why the heck was it always the good people who died young? How come it never failed to be the best people whose lives were brutally snatched from them too soon?

"Remember, if you are feeling resentful of God for taking away Frederick, that he was never yours..." the priest rambled on illogically.

"Yeah, he was, dimwit," griped Bill under his breath to Fleur, "he was my brother."

"Praise God not only for giving life, but for taking it away," implored the priest, as McGonagall and Hagrid blew their noses into their handkerchiefs, and Bill mumbled to his spouse that there was as likely a chance of that happening as there was of Percy starring on the English National Quidditch team. "Death grants eternal rest, peace, and wisdom to those who have led virtuous lives here on earth. God's strength is proven when ours is gone."

Shaking his head, because such a suggestion might be a solace at the funeral of an elderly man like Dumbledore, it was not so at one for somebody like Fred, whose life had been over before it could truly commence, Bill obediently bowed his head, and muttered his way through the obligatory "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys" that concluded the rite. Then, he accepted the crimson rose that was handed to him, and shuffled forward with Fleur to place it on Fred's coffin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot his mum wailing into her husband's shoulder, even though the man himself had saltwater streams trickling down his cheeks. Charlie was crying, too, and Bill could see the dampness on Ron's and Ginny's faces, as Hermione and Harry hugged them, and he could feel the tears coursing down his own cheeks, burning him like a strong acid, as he remembered telling the twins, Ron, and Ginny a bedtime story so many years ago when he had been thirteen, and Fred and George had been five, and war had been unthinkable, and You-Know-Who's resurrection a bad dream, and when they had all been so much younger and more innocent. He was mourning for the death of the innocence and childhood that they had all lost, and would never regain.

Percy's head was bent as he knelt and scooped up a handful of mud, and slowly let it seep out of the cracks between his fingers and let it fall onto Fred's grave. George was standing rigidly, as though he was carved out of stone, by his twin's grave, not crying, because, as Charlie had stated yesterday, it was as if he were attending his own funeral, and you don't cry at that. Lee Jordan had his arm wrapped around him, and Wood, and the three girls who had attended the wake yesterday were arrayed on either side of him, but he did not seem to notice this.

As he watched the proceedings as best he could through the moisture that obscured his vision, Bill recognized dimly that the bitterest tears shed over a loved one's grave were for the words and actions left unexpressed and undone. He wished that he had told Fred "I love you" more often. He wished that he had spent more time with his brother. Oh, if he could only have had a Time Turner with him now, as he had at Hogwarts, then he could have made everything right, the law governing time travel be damned...

"Come on, Bill," Fleur ordered gently, squeezing his arm. "Everyone's going back to ze Burrow for ze reception now."

Glancing around, Bill saw that this was, indeed, the case.

"One moment," he whispered, wanting to feel some sense of closure before he departed, because he would never have the courage to return to this place once he left it.

"Memories can make your 'art ache with sorrow," she remarked, assuming that he was reflecting upon past experiences, rather than on what he should have done to be a better older sibling to his dead brother, on what they could have shared together, if Bill had not been stupid, and squandered their precious little time where they had inhabited this planet together. "Yet it is good to remember ze 'appy times zat you 'ad with 'im. Indeed, as long as do zat, 'e will not truly be gone from you."

"You're as deluded as the preacher, if you believe that," he scoffed at her, lashing out at her in his own moment of weakness. "Fred's gone, and nothing can be done to change that. Death is the end of everything."

"It is not," countered Fleur, a trace of sharpness in her tone. "Don't demean life so by staring with such awe at ze shadow of death. Death is not ze end of everything. No separation, no change, no loss, not even death, can end love." Here, she kissed his forehead with her tender lips. "If you loved your brother, zen you will always carry 'im in your 'eart."

Bill stared down at Fred's coffin, and felt some of the anguish and tension coiled inside him ease at his wife's words. Yes, the deaths of Fred, Tonks, and Remus had made him believe in tragedy, and they had displayed that every victory paradoxically contained a defeat, just as every birth held a death, but she had reminded him that every defeat also held a victory, and life emerged from death, and that he must go on living, carrying Fred, Tonks, and Remus with him not as crosses, but as guides and advisors, until they were reunited in heaven one day. That was the true lesson of the phoenix, and the snake that spun around in an endless circle, devouring itself, but always being reborn again.

"I'm ready to go now," he commented, and the pair of them set off together after the others, their black traveling cloaks drawn tightly against the wind.


	77. Chapter 77

Redemption is Here

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and I don't own "Amazing Grace," which was written by the Anglican John Newton in the 18th century.

Author's Note: For Shetlandlace, and just for fun, I had Harry and the others explain a little to the others about what they were up to in the seventh book. Obviously, it's not the whole story, but it covers the essential points.

Redemption is Here

Unfortunately, however, death did not relinquish its hold on Bill's life, and that night, after he had returned from the reception, following Fred's burial at the Burrow, and was preparing to go to bed with Fleur, Chris' owl shot through the open bedroom window and landed with a hoot on Bill's nightstand. Frowning, because he had a terrible foreboding about the contents of the letter the owl carried, Bill crossed over to the night-table, and removed the note affixed to its foot, so that he could read Chris' scrawl:

**Bill: **

**Mike passed away half an hour ago. His heart and lungs just gave out on him. His wife and I have seen to everything already. The burial is two days from now at Fairview Cemetery at twelve o'clock noon. Mike probably would have liked for you to come, but don't feel obligated to attend, if you don't want to. **

Christopher Brown

For a moment, he just stared down at the slip of parchment. Granted, he had suspected something like this when he had spotted Chris' owl, but that didn't really do much to alleviate the shock he felt when he read and re-read the words "Mike passed away half an hour ago." Gradually, the numbness resulting from surprise gave way to pain at yet another death, a death of somebody who was young, and another death that he could have done nothing to prevent. If he had not already cried all the tears in his reserve at Fred's funeral, he would have sobbed, but, as it was, all that happened was that he lost control of his body. Stunned, his fingers dropped the letter, and he plopped onto the bed he shared with his spouse.

Obviously wondering what had overcome her husband, Fleur bent over, and scooped up the note. In the candlelight, her face softened as she read it, and, when she had finished, she sat down beside him, and wrapped her slender arms around him.

"Mike was your old school friend, is zat correct?" she asked in a quiet voice, stroking the scars upon his cheeks.

"Right in one," he muttered, "take first prize."

"God, I thought zat once ze war was over, ze death toll would lessen, but it seems to be growing, instead."

"These are still casualties from the war," he explained tightly, "because Mike is dead due to the fact that he was locked in Azkaban for months, and that devastated his heart and lungs. The Death Eaters murdered him as surely as they did Fred, Remus, and Tonks in the final battle."

"Was Mike married?" whispered Fleur.

"Yep," Bill responded, nodding, "and he had a newborn girl with his hair and eyes."

"Zen, it is even more upsetting," she sighed, and he could do no more than bob his head in commiseration.

After several long seconds, he shoved himself off the bed, uncovered a roll of parchment, and scribbled to Chris, as politely as he could manage, that he would indeed be attending the burial.

Two days later, he arrived at Fairview Cemetery with Fleur at his side on a cloudy, pewter gray day that threatened, but never delivered rain. Feeling somewhat useless, he placed the wreath of flowers he had purchased the day before on Mike's coffin, and then glanced surreptitiously about at the rest of the congregation while the priest pulled out his Bible, and prepared for his sermon.

There, a few feet apart from him, was Chris, along with a woman whom Bill supposed was his wife, and a little boy who appeared to be Chris' son. On the other side of the grave, was a pretty woman, who was sobbing into a handkerchief with her left hand, while her right arm cradled a baby in a pink cotton blanket, who was probably Mike's spouse, holding their new child. Speckled about the grave, were beings decked out in black whom Bill figured were Mike's friends from work, because he could not remember them from school.

His attention shifted away from the assembly, as the priest began to speak, "My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we are gathered here to mourn the death of Michael Nathan O'Connor, but we are also here to celebrate his life. Mike was a man who devoted his life to working hard, and caring for his wife, and he would have made an exceptional father to his daughter, Natalia. Unfortunately, as good people often are, he was victimized by intolerant, merciless individuals, in this case Death Eaters, who placed him in Azkaban, merely because of his ancestry, which they deemed as impure, even though we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, and God sees no distinction between us. Blood looks the same as blood to Him, and souls are all equal in His judgement, and He loves all of his creations. However, we can take comfort in the knowledge that God will have mercy on Mike for his sins, and will grant him the justice in the afterlife that he never received here on earth.

"By remembering Mike's story, we can learn how to conduct ourselves more virtuously, as Mike did, and we can learn when to speak up against injustice, intolerance, and ruthlessness next time we witness it, which means we can better do God's work. Furthermore, we can take comfort in the understanding that Mike has gone onto greener pastures. In heaven, he will never struggle to breathe again, cough up mountains of his own life's blood, or battle for another beat of his heart. When he joins his Maker, his spirit and body will be renewed, and he will stay forever young, and vibrant, as he was in his youth. Never again will he be imprisoned and tortured, for in heaven all are at peace and loved by their Creator. Therefore, we must not grieve for him, as young as he was, but rejoice for him, because he has gone onto his reward, and we must have faith that, if we follow his example, we will join him again in heaven one day."

At this juncture, the priest bowed his head, and read aloud a psalm, before leading them all in the traditional "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys." Once that was done, he gestured at a young woman, dressed in a choir outfit, who stepped up to the podium, and began to sing:

"_Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,_

_That saved a wretch like me! _

_I once was lost, but now am found,_

_Was blind, but now I see._

"_Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,_

_And grace my fears relieved;_

_How precious did that grace appear _

_The hour I first believed!_

"_Through many dangers, toils, and snares,_

_I have already come;_

'_Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,_

_And grace will lead me home. _

"_The Lord has promised good to me,_

_His word my hope secures;_

_He will my shield and portion be_

_As long as life endures._

"_When we've been there ten thousand years,_

_Bright shining as the sun,_

_We've no less days to sing God's praise_

_Than when we'd first begun." _

Tears trickled down Bill's cheeks as the verses of the song swept over him. Simultaneously, it caused him to envision Fred, Remus, Tonks, and Dumbledore romping in the fields of heaven, but it also prompted memories of the time he had spent with Mike as a teenager to race through his mind in a spiral. Him, Mike, and Chris talking by the common room fire with Jennifer, Steph, and Heather. The six of them slaving over their homework in the library, sometimes getting in trouble with Madam Pince for talking with each other too loudly, and disrupting the silence of her domain. Him, Mike, and Chris burying their heads together in Divination, complaining under their breaths about what a waste of time the subject was, and how they had never seen anything beside white clouds in their crystal balls, and engaging in competitions to ascertain who could devise the most horrible horoscope. Him and Mike taking care to conceal the scrolls where they played hangman in class from McGonagall, Snape, and their other professors. All of these things sped through Bill's brain so rapidly that they barely registered, though they registered enough to rip at his heart. It was hard to believe that he would never see or hear Mike again. It was difficult to accept that he could not break the wall that divided the living from the dead, and somehow, death became more challenging to bear after he had made contact with it so much recently.

Luckily, he was dragged out of his reverie when a rotund, suited man balancing a burlap sack approached the lady Bill assumed was Mike's wife, and demanded in a carrying tone, "You're Michael O'Connor's wife, aren't you, ma'am?"

"Yes, I am," the woman informed him, drawing herself up with a haughty expression upon her pale features. "Who wants to know?"

"I am Martin Bennet, and I am here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic," announced the man. "According to a new ordinance enacted by temporary Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, the survivors who had been imprisoned in Azkaban for their blood status this past year have been awarded twenty thousand Galleons. In cases where the prisoner has died in Azkaban, or has perished upon release, the Ministry will pay the restitution to the next of kin, which is you, ma'am." When he completed this proclamation, he offered the bag of gold to Mrs. O'Connor.

"Twenty thousand Galleons?" Mrs. O'Connor scowled, as she accepted the sack. "Well, that will just about cover the expenses of the funeral and the settling of Mike's affairs, won't it? Although it, of course, won't serve as decent compensation for the amount of money my late husband lost in wages because he was unable to work, since he was unjustly locked up in Azkaban, and it certainly won't make up for the loss of his life, will it? No, but that's logical, as the Ministry wished for Mike, and all the other Muggleborns in England to be killed from the start, so why shouldn't they pay for the funeral?"

"Ma'am," stuttered a taken aback Mr. Bennet, "the Ministry is trying..."

"It should've tried earlier before my husband's heart and lungs were irreparably damaged," snapped Mrs. O'Connor.

"If you have a complaint, you may file it with the appropriate authority at the Ministry of Magic," Mr. Bennet stated, an ugly flush creeping up his florid cheeks, "as I am merely the Ministry's representative here, not the policy maker."

"Oh, that's right, I'd forgotten that you were just one of those little men who do the bidding of evil man, allowing evil to spread across the land, and refusing to stand up and do anything," snorted Mrs. O'Connor, turning on her heel, and stalking away from the grave.

She cut an oddly impressive figure, stomping through the graveyard with her money clenched in one fist, and her baby resting on her other arm. Even in her grief, she had not lost a capacity for a sharp tongue, outrage at injustice, or her dignity, and Bill recognized that her husband's death had not destroyed her. She would keep going on without him, and Mike would be granted his wish: that she remarry, and find a father for his child.

"Mike married well, I gather," commented Bill in an undertone to Chris. He wasn't entirely certain that the other man would acknowledge him, but he figured that it was worth a shot, as he desired nothing more than to fulfill Mike's hope that he and Chris regain their friendship, at least upon some level. In the rear of his brain, he noted how ironic it was that after seven years of sharing their deepest secrets, the inner workings of their hearts, minds, and souls, at Hogwarts, they were now barely able to make small talk, their eyes riveted on the ground, instead of focused upon each other, even when they stood only a few feet apart.

"Yeah, he did," Chris agreed. There was a pregnant pause, in which Chris' spouse began to walk away with their son, mumbling something vague under her breath, clearly sensing that the tension between her husband and Bill was private, and then Chris continued, "Mike told me that you had visited him at the hospital. That was nice of you."

"I wouldn't have dreamed of doing otherwise," he answered, as Fleur kissed him on the cheek, and started to make her way to the iron gates where they could Apparate home.

"Look, Bill, I'm sorry if I ever made you sad," established Chris in a rush, once everyone was out of earshot, "that was never what I wanted, not really."

"Don't be sorry about that," Bill returned, "be sorry about how happy you and Mike made me all those years ago at school—that's why I was upset today."

Another awkward silence ensured, and then, Chris observed, "Mike wished that we recover our old bond. Did he tell you that?"

"Yeah, he did."

Chris' lips twitched upward in a hesitant attempt at a grin, and he held out a hand. "Friends again, then?"

"Friends." Bill accepted the hand, and around them, the cemetery seemed to be filled with three adolescent boys crowing "Best friends forever." Smiling through the moisture that hazed his eyes at the illusion, he added, "It took us awhile, but we're friends again before we're thirty, like Mike declared we would be all those years ago, when we were so excited to go into Hogsmeade for the first time on Halloween."

"But I'm still petrified of McGonagall," remarked his comrade, his tentative grin expanding a tad.

"Me too," Bill confessed, chuckling, "but at least we graduated."

"Yes, at least we graduated," his companion laughed. Then, he gazed about the cemetery, and concluded more seriously, "My wife and Tommy are waiting for me, so I'd better go now, but I'll send you an owl, and we'll get together again soon."

"I'd like that." Bill waved, and then strode off after Fleur, as Chris set off in the opposite direction. As he walked along, he realized that a weight had been taken off his back that he had not even been aware that he was lugging about with him. He and Chris had made up finally, and now he could only wish that it had not taken a death to reunite them, even as he thanked Mike for pushing them back together again.

The afternoon after Mike's burial, the doorbell to Shell Cottage rang. Since he was busy upstairs, getting prepared to return to work at Gringotts the next day, Bill allowed Fleur, who was downstairs, to answer the door, as she was closer. However, seconds after she had admitted whoever it was, she called up to him, "It's for you!"

Expecting Louis, Chris, or possibly his parents to have dropped by, he was surprised when he hurried down the steps, to find Percy standing, as stiff as a poker in discomfiture, in the hall with Fleur.

"Hey, Perce," he greeted. Trying to conceal his astonishment at who the guest was, he smiled, and indicated the living room. "Come in, and sit down for awhile, if you want."

"Thank you," replied Percy with a stuffy formality, following Bill and Fleur into the living room, and settling himself in the lounge chair opposite the sofa they sat in.

"Would you like something to drink, zen, Percy?" inquired Fleur after a few moments of quiet, in which everybody glanced covertly at one another, before averting their eyes again.

"Yes, please," the younger Weasley answered at once, "I will drink whatever you can offer me, as long as it is non-alcoholic, as I'm afraid that if I commence drinking now, I shall never cease to do so, and I have no ambition to become a drunkard."

"Pumpkin juice it is, zen." Fleur rose, and bustled out of the room, and Percy fixed penitent eyes upon his brother.

"You have my most sincere apologies for intruding upon you like this."

"Think nothing of it," Bill reassured him, waving a hand in dismissal. "At least you're better than Ron, who enjoys showing up on my doorstep at midnight, sometimes with a cadre of wounded magical creatures, in addition to Harry and Hermione."

"I shan't be here long, never fear," went on Percy, "all I need is to confide in you for a few minutes, if you'll let me."

"Of course I will." As promised Bill as much, Fleur arrived with a glass of pumpkin juice for Percy.

"Thank you." With a nod of gratitude, Percy accepted the goblet from Fleur, and when she turned to leave them, he added, "You can stay, if you want. I know you're someone special if my brother chose to wed you." As she plopped down beside her husband again, he focused his attention on Bill again. "Growing up, you were the brother I felt closest to, you know."

"Really?" Bill could not hide how dumbfounded he was at this revelation, since he had never felt particularly tight with Perce, and he had always assumed that closeness was mutual, and he had always felt the most connected with Charlie, and Ginny. In fact, the sibling he was most uncomfortable with was none other than Percy, who had never seen to be able to loosen up, and relax enough to unite with the others, and who had always been a pompous know-it-all and tattle tale. Somehow, though, this did not present itself as a tactful idea to express, so he remained silent.

"Yes, I always felt that because we had so much in common—both prefects, both Head Boys, both good test takers, both willing to read and study, both forced to be responsible older siblings—that maybe you could understand me better than the others did," Percy faltered, and, now, Bill felt immensely guilty about all those times he had shot his little brother down. The rest of the Weasley children could comprehend when he was joking around with them, but the third eldest one had always been a little to serious to understand a playful nuance in tone. Before Bill could respond, however, Percy continued, in the same telegraphic fashion.

"I always—always—looked up to you, and Charlie, because ever since my first memory of you two, you were so cool, and so amazing. I always wanted to be just like you two, but then I realized that I couldn't copy Charlie, because his skill on a broomstick was pure, raw talent, something your born with, and no amount of practice will ever attain. So, I focused on copying you, instead, as I figured that your accomplishments could be achieved with hard work and the appropriate amount of effort." Percy gnawed on his lower lip meditatively for a second. "I think that was when I started reading so much. Of course, I might have began reading all the time, because I had nothing better to do with my life. You and Charlie were a set, all set in your ways of playing by the time I arrived, and you didn't want me intruding—even when Mum made you entertain me, you always found a way to make me feel apart with all your inside jokes and grins, and you two, probably didn't even know it, didn't even know that I wanted more than anything to be a part of whatever you shared."

At this point, Bill opened his mouth to establish something, but then he realized that he had no notion of what he had intended to say, and closed his mouth somewhat lamely again. He might have appeared an imbecile, but for once in his life he didn't care. He wished for his brother to understand that he, and Charlie, were far from perfect, and whatever they had been laughing about probably wasn't that funny.

"Then, Fred and George arrived, and they were even more inseparable than you and Charlie were," plowed on Percy, ignoring Bill's attempts at speech, because it seemed that all he needed to do was release emotions he had stored pent-up inside him ever since childhood, however ugly they might be, "since twins, especially identical twins, have an almost telepathic connection, and they really do not connect well with others. Then, Ron and Ginny arrived, and they naturally fit together. So, I was left to occupy myself most of the time, which was how I came to like it, because that was my final defense against a group of kids who really would prefer if I didn't hang out with them. But, I stray far from my initial point, which was that you were the sibling I admired—and hated—the most."

"You hated me?" Bill stared at this bald statement. Somehow, he had never perceived himself as the type of person that inspired loathing in his fellow beings. Irritation, exasperation, or anger, possibly, but hatred, no way, and certainly not in his family members.

"Yes, I hated you, because, as I told you, I wanted to be just like you—"

"You got to be prefect, and Head Boy, and you got your perfect OWL and NEWT scores," Bill reminded him, "meaning that you received everything I did, so why should you hate me?"

"I hated you, because you made all those things look so easy, with your careless approach to school and grades and everything," exploded Percy, "and it's not—or at least it wasn't for me! And you found time to be one of the coolest and most popular boys in Hogwarts on top of all your duties, when I barely had time to spend with my two friends and my girlfriend. And you could get people to do what you told them to without them resenting it, something I could never do. To me, you were perfect, because you managed to balance everything, something I would never be capable of doing."

"It only seemed that way, because I went to great pains to make it appear so," muttered the older Weasley. "Appearances matter to me very much, which is one of my flaws, you know, and I'm also arrogant, stubborn, vain, impossible to deal with in the mornings, especially without my cup of coffee, too independent at times, and overprotective, according to Ginny. For a more complete list, see Charlie or Ginny. Anyway, the reason you thought that grades came easily to me was since I wanted people to believe that, but before my OWLs and NEWTs, I was a bear. I threw books at my buddies and Charlie, and I was snappish and irascible."

"Only you would say something like that, you know." Percy shook his head. "I don't really want to hate you, though, because whenever you hate someone you love, it always ends up hurting you more than them, as it eats away at you like a corrosive."

"So, what did you come here to talk to me about?" Bill determined that it was an impeccable opportunity to switch the topic of conversation.

"I've—I've had a difficult time of it recently," established Percy, somewhat uncomfortably, as if nervous that his older brother was going to bark at him that everyone had a hard time of it lately, but Bill was feeling too sorry for this broken man before him to do so.

"Fred's passing hit you hard, I'm aware of that," muttered Bill, as Percy sipped at his juice, since there was little else he could do to occupy his hands, "but you must not blame yourself for it, Perce. Everything dies, that's just an unpleasant fact of life, no pun intended, and you couldn't have done anything to prevent that giant from bashing the corridor you were in, and you couldn't stop Fred from going. God willed it, and it was so."

"But why did God will it?" demanded Percy in a constricted voice. "_Why?_"

"I don't know." Bill swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, willing himself not to cry, although Percy might hate him less if he broke into uncontrollable sobs, but, at this moment, he was still convinced that he had to be the strong one, as his guest was essentially shattered after Fred's death. "I suppose we just have to keep our faith in God, no matter what, because if we don't, what else do we have in the face of everything that has gone on? And we just have to try not to question His ways, because they're probably as far beyond our comprehension as our ways are beyond the understanding of insects."

"It should have been me who died," remarked Percy in a strangled manner, "not Fred."

"Don't say that!" Bill chided. "You deserve to live, as does everyone else, except perhaps the Death Eaters, and You-Know-Who, who has already been taken care of by our favorite boy hero."

"But I'm not as worthy of life as Fred was," maintained the younger Weasley, "and if I had been killed in the battle, it could have functioned as a form of redemption."

"Death isn't the only type of redemption out there." Acting on an impulse, Bill reached out, and clasped his little sibling's surprisingly slim wrist affectionately, as if he were Charlie. "Even when I was furious at you for disowning us all, I never wanted to kill you, or have you dead, and as far as I'm concerned, you served your penance when you showed up at the final showdown."

"I wish Father could see things in the same light you do," sighed Percy. "I know, although he doesn't ever say it aloud, as he's one of those individuals who keep their wrath concealed, much like you do, that he blames me for Fred's death—"

"Then he's wrong," interrupted Bill sternly, "and grief is blinding him for the truth, meaning that you shouldn't allow that to make you feel guilty."

"And he would rather that I had died, instead of Fred," Percy concluded with the air of a man ruthlessly expressing the appalling truth. "After all, I've always been his least favorite child, an who wouldn't prefer the second half of a duo of comedians to a pompous Pinhead, a Bighead Boy, and a Ruler of Planet Dull, as my peers called me behind my back, when they thought I couldn't hear their whispers."

"That's why you won't permit Dad to touch you," whispered Bill when he could talk again, through the sympathy that was choking him. How could he have believed that his younger brother did not hear the snide comments that followed him everywhere? How could he have thought that words would not wound Percy if he had overheard? Yet again, he had to face the fact that he had not been as decent an older sibling as he used to believe.

After all, he had only really been wonderful to Charlie and Ginny, and it was no challenge to be nice, and play with someone whom you delighted in spending time with. No, the true measure of a good older brother would be an ability to be supportive and not exclude the little siblings who were more annoying and further apart in age. Maybe he could forgive himself for not associating too much with Fred, because the twins always enjoyed spending their time together, and did not always take kindly to tag-alongs, whether older or younger. However, Percy should not have felt isolated—that was Bill's fault, because he should have included the third Weasley child in games with Charlie. Then, Percy would not have been such a socially inept outcast, and he could have been more popular in Hogwarts, and then he would not have been able to leave his family. Yes, he would as guilty as Percy was for Percy's decision to abandon the family, because it had been Bill's obligation to make him understand that it was family in the first place.

Silently, Percy bobbed his head in affirmation of his logic.

"Dad loves you, Perce," Bill informed him only slightly above a whisper.

"There's a distinction between feeling obliged to love a person, and actually loving them for who they are," murmured his companion. "Father loves you and the rest of his children for their personalities, but he only loves me because he tells himself that he ought to, as I am his own offspring, even though my personality traits would drive him up the wall when they appear in non-relatives. Father and I were never tight, and now we never will be, and I'll never make him proud of me, as I would like to have done." Under his horn-rimmed glasses, Percy blinked rapidly to prevent the tears glittering in his eyes from pouring down his cheeks.

"I'm sure he's proud that you had the courage to arrive at the final battle, despite the fact that you'd been estranged from us for two years."

"I wouldn't want him being proud of me for that." Here Percy emitted a peculiar rasping sound that was probably intended to serve as a laugh. "Don't imagine that there was anything noble in my actions, Bill."

"What do you mean?" the addressed arched his eyebrows inquiringly at the other man.

"I mean that I was a fool and a coward, who refused to see the reality of what was occurring, because I was afraid to admit that I had been incorrect." Percy scowled his disapproval of his own behavior. "I was so stupid that, even as Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, I refused to see that they were prosecuting and locking Muggle-Borns up unjustly, and I just kept sending out orders for them to appear in court, and allowing them to be carted off to Azkaban to sate the perverted desires of the dementors, until my girlfriend, my angel, my Penelope was commanded to present herself in court. Even then, I told myself not to question the Ministry, and it's collective wisdom—"

"That's something that can't be done," teased Bill, "as there's no collective wisdom there to call into question."

However, Percy paid this no mind, as he plunged on, "I thought that surely she would be found innocent of stealing magic, and doubtlessly the hundreds of other Muggle-Borns who had been shipped off to prison were actually guilty of the crime of which they had been accused. It wasn't until Penny was convicted that I began to think that the Ministry was wrong in its treatment of Muggle-Borns. Still, I didn't think that I needed to take action until I spotted Penny's name on the list of those who had perished in Azkaban. Then, I decided to speak with Aberforth when I went up to Hogsmeade on Ministry business, and he promised to owl me if something happened up at the school that I could help out with. It only took a death that brought me to my knees for me to reform, isn't that noble, and magnificent?"

"Percy, I'm so, so sorry," sputtered Bill, thinking that he had been saying far too much of that recently, but the other Weasley cut across him, a tinge of mania gleaming in his brown eyes.

"I did it. I killed her. I refused to secure her forged documents and passports so that she could flee the country, as she had requested that I do. I didn't do so, since I was so naive, stupid, and hell-bent on sticking to the letter of the law, even if my conscience and justice were against it. I listened to my pride, and I ignored her, and she died, and now myself is all I will ever have, because that was all I ever seemed to care about." Sobs shook Percy's shoulders. "Damn it! Just damn it! I loved her, and I loved Fred, and I destroyed them both. But I did love them, and I never wanted anything dreadful to happen to them, or anyone else, for that matter. That's why I abided by the rules, and required that everybody else do the same. I believed that rules and laws were really there for everyone's own good, and that they would protect everybody, not hurt them."

"I know," Bill reassured him, "you're a good person at heart, and you wouldn't intentionally injure anyone."

"That's what I used to think," commented Percy grimly. "I always studied hard, paid attention in class, and followed the rules. I didn't go out after curfew, I didn't plagiarize anything from the library books, and I didn't cheat off other people on exams, and I didn't even 'borrow' other pupils' homework. I was respectful and didn't talk back to my superiors. I thought that made me a good person, but now I've seen that is not the case."

"It's easy to resist other people's temptations, yes," Bill agreed with a ghost of a smile, "but giving into your bad side every once in awhile doesn't mean you're a horrible person. After all, I think you have to give into that which is worse in you at least once in order for you to even recognize that it is there."

"But I think I was only pretending to be good," whispered Percy.

"You can only pretend for so long before you become that which you pretend." The other man shrugged.

"But I'm dumb and naive."

"No," contradicted Bill, "you are a clever person, more intelligent than me, but like many intellectuals, you live in an ivory tower, from which you perceive things as they ought to be, as opposed to how they actually are, and sometimes that has dire consequences, but that doesn't make you evil or stupid."

"But ambition undid me as well," added Percy harshly. "It was my ambition that led me to renounce my family, because I wanted to maintain my high post at the Ministry, and it was my ambition to remain there that made me adhere to every rule, even the ones I suspected were immoral. Again, I had to assuage my pride with a nice title for myself, and, like Umbridge, I derived pleasure from the notion that I had power others."

"Ambition is like fire, neither good nor evil on its own," Bill mused. "It all depends upon how you use it, I reckon. It can make a body achieve all kinds of spectacular feats, but it can also ruin a man and create Death Eaters, and You-Know-Who, meaning it is present in the best and the worst of us, and probably divides that which is greatest in us from that which is darkest. I myself am ambitious, and prideful, which is why I love being admired, being the center of attention, being the best, and I always have to seem smart and cool, haven't you noticed? I will always be that way, because I want to prove myself, I guess, and I wish to set a fine example for my siblings, and that's the way it is, for better or for worse. I can try to make sure that I use my dirve for good, not for ill, but it will always be there."

He eyed his brother somberly. "There is a jungle inside each of us. All we can do is acknowledge its presence, and strive to tame it. Know your ambition is there, and channel it into a good cause."

"That's why I'm going to work in the Ministry Archives as Assistant Head Librarian, instead." Percy nodded, and a ghost of a grin graced his features. "I will help people look up information for writing tomes, and assist lawyers in finding laws and records that pertain to their cases. The pay is more than decent, although not as considerable as the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister salary was, but I will have better hours, and less risk for temptation and corruption. I'll be returning to my flat and work on next Monday, I've decided, because I can't bear the tension between Father and I."

"I'm glad to learn that you've got a new job that suits you," grinned Bill, "and, just think, you'll be able to talk about Section D2 of the Statute for Proper Broom Maintenance to people who actually care."

"There's a Section D2 of the Statute for Proper Broom Maintenance?" echoed an astounded Percy.

"I don't know," chuckled Bill. "I thought _you_ would."

"I'll look it up for you." Percy's lips quirked upward a trace.

"Thanks." Smirking, Bill messed up Percy's carefully groomed locks, paying no heed to his muttered protests. "None of my brothers can visit my home without getting their hair messed up. It's the toll. Just ask Ron if you don't believe me."

"I really do hate you," stated Percy loftily, as he attempted to fix his hair into its typical severe style, although he was actually smiling, "and I sincerely hope that you are abducted by centaurs."

"If 'e is, I am not paying ze ransom," Fleur announced, as Percy rose.

"Thank you for having me," he remarked, heading for the door. "I appreciate it, and, by the way, Mother requested that I cordially invite you two to supper this Friday evening at six o'clock."

"Tell her we'll be there!" Bill hollered after him. "Oh, and Perce?"

"Yes?"

"You could try calling our father 'Dad', you know, because then you don't sound so stiff, and as though you just walked our of the seventeenth century."

"I'll try it," responded Percy after a moment's hesitation, "but it will take some getting accustomed to, as I've called him 'Father' ever since I was seven-years-old."

A second later, the door shut as the third Weasley boy departed Shell Cottage.

"Dad," Bill started, as the two of them laid the table in the garden for dinner on Friday evening, "I think that after we eat you should talk to Perce."

"He won't speak with me," answered Mr. Weasley, shaking his head, as he placed down the forks and spoons, "and he won't look at me, or let me touch him. In fact, the only person he speaks to is your mum."

"He talked to me."

"In that case, you should be flattered." Mr. Weasley's tone was dry.

"Actually, he visited me, and the sad fact is that we had the lengthiest chat we ever had," Bill persisted, following his father with the napkins and knives. "Anyway, I think that he would like to talk to you, if he could."

"If he hasn't gone mute, I don't see why he can't."

"He needs you to break the ice first," explained his son.

"I've tried that. Don't think I haven't, Bill."

"You have to tell him that you're proud of him, then he'll listen to you." At this, Mr. Weasley nearly dropped the cutlery he was carrying.

"I wasn't aware that he required my approval." There was more than a touch of bitterness in Arthur Weasley's tone.

"Every child wants their parents to approve of them, Dad." Bill rolled his eyes. "That's why the phrase 'I'm so disappointed in you' with the waggling finger works like a charm."

"You are full of surprises today," noted Mr. Weasley, "as I never had the impression that you were overly concerned with what my mum and I thought about your behavior, because you always made your most important decisions, like what career you wished to pursue and who you wanted to marry, completely on your own."

"Well, we don't want anyone to know how much power they have over us," his child shrugged. "Besides, I enjoy making my choices, especially the crucial ones for myself. But, anyway, Percy wants you to be proud of him, so tell him you are, in the name of Merlin."

"Who says I am proud of him?" Mr. Weasley raised his eyebrows.

"Come on, Dad, how can you not be proud of him?" pressed Bill. "He stood by us in the final battle, and had the courage to remain true to his convictions, incorrect though they might have been in the end, which is something many people can't do, and he had the bravery to admit that he was wrong when that was proven to be the case, and then he strove to redeem himself. You can't ask for much more than that, and if he were my son, I would be proud of him, because he's his own man, finally."

"Hmm," mumbled Mr. Weasley, as he debated this inwardly.

Taking advantage of his indecision, Bill went on, "Dad, I know you miss Fred, and so do I, and nobody will ever be able to replace him, but you can't blame Percy for what happened. You can't lose another son, not when he's come home again at last. It's hard to forgive someone who has betrayed you, I am aware of that from experience, but if you let them into your life again, you will be happy once more, not resentful. Life is too short for bearing grudges, if you ask me. We only have so many chances to connect with each other here on earth, and then there is only the afterlife—maybe."

"You have become wise," Mr. Weasley observed wryly. "Life was far easier back when only I was wise."

"Tough," snorted Bill, "nobody claimed being a father was easy."

"Least of all me. Very well, I will try to speak with Percy after dinner," conceded his dad.

"That's all I ask," Bill smiled, and they finished setting the table in silence. While they did so, he prayed that the relationship between Percy and his father would improve, and that the entire family would be able to continue on just as strong, or perhaps stronger, in the wake of Fred's death. Maybe this time Percy would really feel like he was a Weasley in more than just name. Nothing would make him happier than for that to be the case, but all he knew for sure was that it was pointless to assign blame, because there was always plenty to go around when you got down to doing that, and every time you pointed an incriminating finger at someone else, there were four more directed right back at you.

After the war ended, and the country was stabilized under the control of Kingsley, who was voted Minister of Magic in late May, spring and summer went by in a blaze of heat and work. On the last day of August, all the Weasleys, except Charlie who had departed for Romania a couple of days after Fred's burial, and Harry and Hermione strolled over to the knoll near the Burrow, and settled down for a picnic lunch of pickles, egg salad sandwiches, and cheese and crackers alongside lemonade and iced tea that had been compiled by Mrs. Weasley.

"I can't believe that my baby is about to enter her final year at Hogwarts," sniffled Mrs. Weasley, as she passed around a plastic container of egg salad sandwiches along with paper plates to put them on. "Time goes by so quickly, an children grow up so rapidly. It seems like only yesterday that Arthur and I were helping her onto the train to school for the first time."

"If you want, I can fail the year, so that I'll be attending school for one more year," teased Ginny, hazelnut eyes gleaming in the streams of sunlight that filtered between the branches and leaves of the sycamore they were sitting under. "Then, I'll be a super senior, just like Ron, Harry, and Hermione are this year."

"Except that we didn't fail our seventh year, we just didn't show up for it," Ron reminded her with some asperity, his words somewhat challenging to understand since he was munching on a pickle at the same time.

"You mean that Harry and Hermione didn't fail, but you did, because you're a bumbling idiot," fired back his sister, her eyes burning, and the youngest Weasley boy kicked her, hard, in the shins by way of a retort.

"Well, it was very kind of Professor McGonagall to permit anyone who missed the year on account of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, and anybody who attended school, but felt that they did not receive adequate instruction to take or repeat the year without penalty," Hermione commented, taking a dainty bite of her egg salad sandwich, while Ron gasped and rubbed his ankle gingerly, because Ginny had kicked him in revenge. "Now, we'll be able to sit our N.E.W.T's, and everything, and then take our places in the working world."

"May I ask what career you are planning on pursuing?" inquired Percy, sipping his lemonade. "Are you considering a career in research, or--"

"I'm thinking of brokering old and valuable books, which will allow me to travel to all sorts of libraries around the globe, as a job," Hermione responded, "but I will devote my spare time to crusading for house-elf rights. First, I'll campaign for the passage of laws regulating the humane treatment of house-elves in servitude, so that all elves have the benefit of being treated like Harry's Kreacher. Then, I'll push through laws that demand that house-elves who grow too old for work be properly cared for. After that, I shall work on securing pay, sick leave, and pensions for them. To do that, though, I'll need funds, which is part of the reason why I must have a job in addition to my campaign work—"

"Yeah, and while you're at it, you'll need to change your name to something a tad more catchy than 'spew,'" snickered Ron, devouring a cheese covered cracker, and Hermione glared at him.

"For your information, Ronald, it's not 'spew', but 'S.P.E.W.'" Facing Percy again, she added, "It stands for the "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.' I have badges if you'd like to purchase one. It only costs two Sickles, and all proceeds will got to funding my leaflet campaign."

Remembering how Percy had argued with Hermione at the Quidditch World Cup over elf right, Bill was shocked when Percy fumbled in the pocket of his robes, and withdrew a golden Galleon. As he dumped it into Hermione's outstretched palm, he told her, "Keep the change."

"Thanks," beamed Hermione, her cheeks flushed so much with excitement that Bill started to understand how his youngest brother might find her physically attractive. "When we return to the Burrow, I'll fetch you your badge."

"You're most welcome," Percy replied. "If you wish, I can devote some of my office hours to researching the history of Elfish laws, rights, and legal cases in the Ministry Archives. It is possible that I might be able to uncover something that is not present in the Hogwarts library, admirably complete though it is."

"I would appreciate that. Thank you again." Hermione's smile expanded so that it literally stretched from ear to ear.

"Don't thank me." Puffing himself up like a penguin, Percy waved an airy hand. "After all, as Assistant Head of the Ministry Archives, it is my solemn duty and responsiblity to ensure that researchers and lawyers interested in Britain's vast and interesting magical legal history receive the necessary assistance in their endeavors." Before Hermione could answer this, he had turned to regard Harry and Ron. "What will you two do after you graduate?"

"I'm going to become an Auror, if I receive the requisite N.E.W.T scores," Harry educated him.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about anyone refusing your application to be become an Auror after you've defeated You-Know-Who, even if you get a 'T' on all your N.E.W.T's," chuckled Bill, taking a sip of his iced tea.

"That's what I said, but he didn't listen to me," snorted Ron through a mouthful of egg salad sandwich.

"No, I said I didn't want to owe my career to the fact that I'm famous Harry Potter," contested Harry. "There's a difference."

"Sure, and that's very noble and all," Bill allowed before focusing on Ron. "So, what are you going to do with your life after school?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I'm going to be a Harry Potter sidekick, because that's what I do best."

"Nobody can do a better job than you," agreed Harry with a grin.

"You know, I've been wondering how McGonagall plans to fit so many extra students into Hogwarts," murmured Mr. Weasley thoughtfully, stroking his nose by the rim of his glasses once silence had fallen again.

"Well, everyone except those who were or would have been seventh-years last year remain in the dorm they would have been in if they had gone to school last year," Hermione clarified. "Those who would have been seventh-years will room in the Room of Requirement. McGonagall wasn't too big on the idea, at first, but she decided to allow it in the end, since a Head Boy and a Head Girl will be there—"

"_A_, not _the_?" Bill interrupted keenly.

"Yes, there will be two of each this year, one for this year's seventh-years, and one for last year's," replied Hermione. "Ernie and I are for our year, and a Ravenclaw set are for Ginny's."

"I don't think that anything like this has ever happened in the entire history of Hogwarts." Percy shook his head in wonder. "Two Head Boys, and two Head Girls, and a whole extra year at the school."

"Perhaps they'll have to update _Hogwarts, a History_ again to take this into account," added Bill, half joking and half serious.

"Why bother?" Ron demanded on an eye roll. "Nobody has ever read it."

"I did," argued Hermione, Percy, and Bill at once, with varying degrees of hostility.

"I never thought I'd meet so many people who were so bored that they actually read those one thousand or so pages of absolute dullness," observed Ron, chewing on a pickle.

For a few minutes, there was quiet on the picnic blanket, broken only by the content sounds of beings munching merrily on their lunches or slurping up the last of their cold beverages, and then Bill remarked, "While we're on the subject of the mysteries of life, I was wondering what exactly you three—Harry, Ron, and Hermione, I mean—were up to basically all of last year, and how exactly you defeated You-Know-Who, Harry."

"You were there when I defeated Voldemort." Harry shrugged, and Bill almost dropped his iced tea when the Dark Wizard's name was employed. Merlin, why couldn't the boy just call him 'You-Know-Who' like everyone else on the planet?

"And half the words that came out of your mouth were Greek to me," answered Bill. "All I got out of it was that there is an unbeatable wand or something, Snape didn't want your mother dead, and Dumbledore wanted Snape to kill him, and, as none of these things make the remotest sense to me, I'm inclined to believe that I was wrong about them."

At this point, the Boy Who Lived stared off into space, debating with himself for a moment that felt far longer than it was, before he muttered, "I don't suppose it would do any harm to tell you now that Voldemort is dead and gone forever. Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?"

"Nope." As he shook his head, Bill recollected that Harry had mentioned them briefly in his final showdown with You-Know-Who, and he hoped that he was about to learn why this had been the case. "If you want to know about hieroglyphics, though, I'm your man."

"Does anyone know anything about Horcruxes?" pressed Harry, glancing around at Fleur, Bill's parents, Percy, and Ginny.

"I 'ave never 'eard of zem, either," Fleur informed him, her silver hair bouncing when she shook her head in negation.

Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shook their heads to demonstrate that they did not know what Horcruxes were, either, and Percy commented, "I have never stumbled across the term in any of my reading at Hogwarts, or in the Ministry of Magic Archives."

"Well, you probably wouldn't have," explained Hermione, a grim expression in her brown eyes, "as Horcruxes are possibly the most evil type of Dark Magic there is. Even in the Restricted Section of the library at school, the only reference to them that I was able to uncover was that one author would not discuss them, because they are the most dreadful of the Dark Arts."

"What do they do that is so horrible?" frowned Ginny, her gaze riveted on the other girl.

However, it was Harry who answered this inquiry. "A Horcrux is an object in which a Dark wizard can entrap a fragment of his soul."

"Why would anyone do that?" Bill wondered aloud. "The soul provides strength to live, and do magic, so why would you wish to weaken it by ripping it apart?"

"That's only true while your body and soul are connected," countered Hermione. "However, the body and soul can be separated. For most of us, this occurs when we die, and our souls go on, while our bodies remain here to rot. Dark wizards, like You-Know-Who, though, aren't content with that. They want to separate their soul from their body while they still inhabit the earth, because, as long as a fragment of their soul resides here on earth, unharmed, then they shall survive, no matter what damage is inflicted upon their body. In essence, it is the antithesis of what happens to the rest of us, as, for the rest of us, when our bodies cease to be, our souls still endure."

"So You-Know-Who created a Horcrux, and that's why he was able to survive in a frail state after his Killing Curse was reflected back onto him off Harry after his mother died to save him?" faltered Bill. "And you went on a quest to destroy it, so you could kill You-Know-Who once it was gone?"

"That's mostly correct." Harry nodded his head in confirmation. "Except that Voldemort split his soul into seven pieces, meaning that he had six Horcruxes, and the final part of his soul lived inside him."

"He split his soul six times?" yelped Percy, a cracker covered with cheddar cheese frozen mid-way to his mouth. "How in the name of Merlin could he do such a thing? It must have been frightfully painful!"

"Oh, it would have been agonizing for everyone except people like Voldemort," Harry responded, "because, you see, to create a Horcrux you must murder someone. Murdering tears the soul apart. Once a soul has been torn, you can encase that fraction of the soul in an object, if you use the appropriate magic. So, all he had to do was commit six murders, which isn't such a challenge when you're Voldemort, and murdering and torturing beings is your favorite sport."

"How in the world do you know all this?" asked Mr. Weasley, staring incredulously at Harry.

"Dumbledore told me all about it during my sixth year. He showed me his memories of Voldemort, and everything." When Harry mentioned the memory bit, Bill comprehended that this was how the lad had discovered that You-Know-Who's childhood surname had been Riddle.

"How did you destroy all those Horcruxes?" Ginny whispered, her wide eyes pinned upon Harry.

"Well, I destroyed the first one—Riddle's old school diary—in my second year with the basilisk venom, before I even knew what Horcruxes were. Then, Dumbledore destroyed one in the summer between my fifth and sixth years. In fact, because of the damage that ruining the Horcrux did to him, he knew that he was going to die, and so he requested that Snape kill him, so that he could take possession of the unbeatable wand. Anyway, I was able to destroy another with Ron's help with the sword of Gryffindor, and then, when we arrived at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione went back down into the Chamber of Secrets and destroyed another with more basilisk venom. Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement did away with another. As you saw, Neville killed Voldemort's snake, and I allowed Voldemort to kill me, so that the Horcrux that he had accidentally made me would be destroyed."

"You're so brave," crooned Ginny, running a hand along Harry's arm, and Bill squeezed his sandwich so tightly that half of the egg salad remaining in it came spewing out onto his plate. If only that sandwich could have been Potter's neck...

"I wouldn't have been able to do it without the second Hallow, the stone that permitted me to communicate with my mum, dad, and Sirius, who provided me with the courage to face my death," Harry murmured, resting his hand on top of hers. "Then, of course, the first Hallow, the Invisibility Cloak, was useful as it allowed me to conceal myself from the Death Eaters and you-Know-Who once the battle had began, so that I could protect people without them realizing it, and, the first Hallow, the Death Stick, or the unbeatable wand, permitted me to do away with You-Know-Who simply by turning his own evil Killing Curse back upon him."

"Hallows?" echoed Ginny, her forehead knitting in bemusement.

"Just tools to aid humans in mastering death," Harry shrugged, smiling at her. "There's a stone that can recall those who have died, although they appear as shadows, not real beings, and there's my Invisibility Cloak, which has been an heirloom in my father's family for generations, and there's the unbeatable wand, the only Hallow Voldemort had ever heard of, which has a bloody history of being passed from wizard to wizard in Wizarding duels. Dumbledore got it off Grindelwald in 1945 when he beat him, and Draco, not Snape, got it off Dumbledore, and I got it off Draco. Voldemort broke into Dumbledore's tomb and killed Snape all in the hopes of getting his hands on the unbeatable wand, but his actions were in vain, for when I beat Draco, the unbeatable wand shifted its allegiance to me."

"And the bit about Dumbledore dabbling in the Dark Arts when he was younger, is that true?" demanded Bill. "And the bit about Snape liking your mother?"

"Yes," sighed Harry, "Snape had a crush on my mum ever since they were children, when they grew up in the same neighborhood. I saw it in the memory he gave me before he died. Her death shifted his allegiance entirely to Dumbledore, and that's why he tried to save me, because I was all that was left of her. She was the one he cared about, and when he died, he made me look in his eyes, because he wanted to perish with her eyes on him."

"And the bit about Dumbledore?" Bill pressed, after a moment in which he struggled to absorb the shock that resulted from the idea of Snape actually caring about anyone.

"That's true, too," admitted Harry, "he was friends with Grindelwald the summer after he graduated, and they were both obsessed with the power that could be theirs if they could get their hands on the Hallows. It took the death of his little sister Ariana for him to see the flaw in his behavior. Then, he reformed, but he still saw power as his temptation, which is why he remained at Hogwarts, despite offers to become Minister of Magic." After a long pause in which everyone tried to reconcile this with the mental schemas they had of kindly old Dumbledore, he finished, "So, there you have it. That's how Voldemort was defeated, and, because he sacrificed his soul here for more power, he is facing a complete destruction that probably no wizard has ever known. His whole soul was destroyed when the Horcruxes were ruined, and his body now decays, just as everyone else's does. However, he has no soul to continue on eternally. His fear of death was the death of him."

Following this tale, there was total silence. Nobody chewed, swallowed, or sipped, and even the birds in the trees around them appeared to have gone suddenly mute, as they did not sing or chirp in the background. Or, if they did, Bill did not notice them doing so. At Harry's words, a chill had crept up and down the length of his spine, and he still wasn't entirely certain why. After all, You-Know-Who deserved whatever punishment he got, and it was perhaps a mercy that he had no soul left to suffer the torments of hell as his Death Eaters undoubtedly were or would. Still, there was something disconcerting about that ending, anyhow, something that prevented it from being the happily ever after they all so richly deserved. However, that was negative thinking, he chided himself.

Life was undeniably loads better now than it had been prior to the war. A competent Minister who could store more than two thoughts in his brain at a time was in control of the government. Minerva McGonagall was Headmistress at Hogwarts, and, while she was not in Dumbledore's league, she was still sharp minded, and sharp-tongued, and a powerful witch, who could do an impeccable job running the school. Louis was moving in about a mile away from Bill in a week's time, and Percy was back in the family now. No, everything wasn't perfect, but he would have been a fool to expect it to be. Things were as good as they could get for now, and he should cherish it while it lasted.

On an impulse, he raised his half empty cup of iced tea to Fleur in a toast. "To the end of the war, and to all those we knew and loved who perished in it."

"Cheers." Fleur banged her glass of lemonade against his, and then they both drank.


	78. Chapter 78

Author's Note: As I have never been pregnant due to the fact I am only seventeen, I apologize if anything that pertains to Fleur's pregnancy is inaccurate

Author's Note: As I have never been pregnant due to the fact I am only seventeen, I apologize if anything that pertains to Fleur's pregnancy is inaccurate. I'm only writing this based on secondhand information from Health Class and _It's Perfectly Normal_, so just point it out politely if I get something wrong. Thanks. By the way, Bill faints for Lady Clark Weasley.

Disclaimer: Well, last time I checked, my name wasn't J.K. Rowling, so I'm assuming that I'm still not her.

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Surprises

When Bill returned home from work at Gringotts on the first of October, he was surprised to discover that the dining room table was laden with their finest china dishes, and baby shrimp, tomato-avocado soup, and salad. However, he noted that there was no wine present in either of their goblets, which were instead filled with pumpkin juice, as he seated himself across from Fleur.

"Are we celebrating something?" he inquired, arching his eyebrows at her, while she loaded their bowls with soup from the tureen.

"Yes," she answered, sitting back down, and taking her first bite of soup.

"May I ask was we're celebrating?" he pressed, not eating, because he was afraid to learn what monumental event he had forgotten, when she failed to expound upon this notion.

"We're celebrating ze wonderful news I 'ave for you, of course," announced Fleur with an enigmatic grin that would have made the Cheshire cat envious. When she pronounced as much, her spouse struggled to conceal his relief at the fact that the reason they were celebrating was _supposed_ to be news to him, meaning that he was not about to be chided for absentmindedness.

"And what news would that be?"

"Guess."

"No," he chuckled, "I've no idea."

"You 'ave to guess, anyway," she bossed.

"Fine," he conceded, starting in on his soup, which tasted scrumptious, enthusiastically, "you found a new dress that looks brilliant on you."

"Frankly, I am offended zat you believe me to be zat vain," she sniffed, helping herself to a shrimp from the center platter, and chewing on it primly. "Guess again, and zis time I expect better from you, Monsieur."

"Louis finally finished unpacking, and agreed to lend you his favorite French cookbook?"

"You are impossible," Fleur scowled, wagging her shrimp tail at him like an admonishing finger. With a tortured sigh, she continued, "Very well, zen. I will tell you my good news. I am pregnant!"

"What?" Bill's spoon slipped out of his suddenly limp hand, and clattered against his bowl. The final word contained no meaning for him, and might as well have been Mandarin Chinese, but, from the beam illuminating the entirety of his wife's angelic face, it was intended to hold a world of meaning for him, all of it magnificent.

"I'm pregnant," repeated Fleur, her smile still glowing in the candlelight. "I'm going to 'ave a baby."

"_My_ baby?" Bill couldn't stop staring blankly at her, as if she had just informed him that she was going to give birth to a litter of wolf cubs in a few months time.

"Who else's baby would I be carrying?" she snapped, her spine stiffening at the insult and the charge of adultery that he had not even realized had slipped out in his astonishment. However, he ignored this, as one thought finally managed to etch itself across his mind in what must have been a long and lonely journey:_ I'm a father. God help me, I'm going to be a dad! On second thought, Lord, help my poor child. I have no idea how to be a dad._

Dimly, he recognized in the rear of his brain that a gray gauze was beginning to cover the whole scene, and he was feeling dizzy, as though he had consumed three too many goblets of wine, although that could hardly be the case, since he had not enjoyed any alcoholic beverages with his supper. Then, all thought was wiped from his mind like chalk from a blackboard, as his chair toppled backward, seemingly of its own accord, and smacked into the mercifully carpeted floor with him in it. Pain lanced through his head when it collided with the floor. After that, blackness engulfed him, and the pain faded into nothingness.

The touch of damp linen upon his forehead awakened him, and, when he peeked open his eyes, he saw Fleur kneeling above him, a fretful expression lining her features.

"What happened?" he asked her, and was vaguely surprised at the effort it required to communicate with her, and how distant his own voice sounded to his ears.

"You fainted," she responded, helping him to sit up again.

About to ask why he had done so, he recollected the answer to his own inquiry abruptly, and remarked numbly, "You're pregnant."

Obviously fearful that he would pass out again, Fleur replied with a mere brief nod of affirmation.

At this revelation, Bill buried his head in his palms, and moaned, "I'm going to be a father. How in the name of all that is holy did this happen?" Sensing rather than seeing her open her mouth, he added quickly, before she could provide an explanation that would doubtlessly serve to humiliate the pair of them, "Never mind. I know how it occurred. It's just that I can't accept that it did occur, that's all. That's what I meant."

"You're not 'appy, zen?" Fleur reached out a tentative hand, and began to rub his arm, tears glistening in her azure eyes now. "I thought zat you wanted to 'ave children. I thought zat you were looking forward to it."

For some reason, her words jarred him. They made him comprehend all the joyful moments that he would have in the future with his baby. He would watch it learn to walk and talk, and run, and read, and write, and add. He would wave to it when it went off to Hogwarts. He would read to it from Beedle the Bard, and dress it in cute baby clothes. Hey, he might even decorate a Christmas tree with it one day…Sure, there were rough patches in parenthood, but he would get through them. After all, hadn't he had years of training as a big brother to afford him invaluable experience with children?

As his fears receded, elation rose inside him, replacing his foolish concerns. Feeling as though he were on top of the world, and would never have to come tumbling way down to the earth so far, far below ever again, he shoved himself to his feet in a burst of energy. His body still operating on auto-pilot, he clasped his wife's writsts, and tugged her to her feet. Once she was standing, he spun her about twice, before chagrin swept over him with the velocity of a tidal wave. Fleur was pregnant, and unborn babies were very fragile, for Merlin's sake…Heavens, he was witless sometimes.

"Sorry," he apologized, halting mid-step, "that was stupid of me."

"Zat's okay," she laughed, "I'm not suddenly made of glass, you know."

"No," he agreed, smirking, as he kissed her neck and shoulder, "you're not made of glass. So, how long have you known?"

"I found out for certain today," she told him, "but I suspected it when my period didn't come. However, I wanted to be positive when I told you." Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Fleur muttered, "I don't think zat we should tell anyone until ze first trimester 'as passed, as zat is ze time when ze probability of losing ze baby is 'ighest. Zat is what 'appened to two of ze babies my maman was carrying before Gabrielle was born."

"When was our baby conceived?" Bill inquired, eager to take her mind off stillbirths and miscarriages.

"On ze third of September," Fleur grinned at him. "Ze due date is May third."

"May third, huh?" he mused, reflecting upon how You-Know-Who had been defeated around that time. "I like that. A spring baby, and a Taurus. A little bull, ready to charge, and take advantage of the new world we've created."

By way of an answer, Fleur leaned back in his arms, and kissed him.

Two months later, in early November, Bill and Fleur were reclining on their bed in a sea of pillows and blankets, trying to decide on a name for the baby Fleur was lugging about inside her womb, a feat that was complicated by the fact that Fleur wished to give their offspring a French name, while Bill was equally determined to give their child an English-sounding name, so that he could pronounce it.

"Caitlin?" he suggested, but Fleur shook her head immediately, as she flipped over another page in her French name book.

"Zat is a fad. It will seem dated in a decade."

"Meghan?"

"Another fad," snorted his wife.

"Kathryn?"

"Too common and too English," scoffed Fleur.

"Julia?"

"Another common English name." Once again, she dismissed his proposal briskly.

"Then you suggest a name," he commanded, his tone slightly testy, because he was miffed with her refusal to consider any of the names he unearthed in _1000 Baby Names_.

"Anais."

"That sounds like some horrid disease," he educated her, scanning a list of names in his book.

"It is not," she retorted. "It means 'grace.'"

"It still sounds as if it is a fatal ailment," shrugged Bill.

"Solange."

"Is that a boy or a girl name?" Bill arched an eyebrow at her.

"Girl," she informed him tartly.

"Well, nobody would know that just by glancing at it," he chuckled. Sobering, he asked, "What about Sydney? Or Savannah? Or Makayla?"

"Ze first two are places, and ze last one is an idiotic blend." Fleur rolled her eyes skyward in exasperation with his selections. "What about Odette?"

"There's a name that would get our daughter into the poorhouse," mumbled Bill. When his spouse glared at him, he decided that now was a marvelous time to become diplomatic, and he commented, "Let's move onto boy names, now, since we can't agree on girl ones." He flicked to the boy names section of his book, and suggested, "Jeremy? Jonathan? Joshua?"

"Where are zese from, ze Bible?" she grumbled. "What about Etienne?"

"What book are you looking at exactly?" Bill demanded incredulously. "_A Hundred Names to Get You Child Picked on at School_?"

"Or Yves?" Apparently, she had elected to ignore his taunt, and press on with her French name proposals.

"Only if our son wants to hand out pronunciation keys on how to say him name to everyone he meets," he teased.

"Oh, I know!" Abruptly, Fleur gasped, and clapped her hands in a spasm of delight.

"What?" Bill stared at her, wondering what precisely her epiphany was, and if it boded good or ill for him.

"We'll call him Guillaume!"

"Why the heck would we do that? Our baby is too innocent to deserve such a dreadful fate."

"It is ze French form of your name." Fleur shot him a glacial look. "And, personally, I think that it is more attractive and pronounceable zan yours."

"And the rest of the English-speaking world disagrees with you, love," he chortled. "Anyway, if it is indeed that French form of my name, we certainly can't use it for our son, because it is the ultimate sign of an egotist to name your child after yourself."

"Your middle names is Arthur after your father," she reminded him, "and your papa is not arrogant. 'E is a nice and 'umble man."

"Middle names are different," he replied, as if it were the most obvious fact on the planet. "Besides, I praise the Lord everyday that I was the oldest boy in my family, so I received Arthur as a middle name, as opposed to Septimus, Ignatius, Arcturus, Lysander, or Billius. I mean, I know middle names are intended to make you cringe and stop perpetrating whatever crime you're committing, but Billius is just inhuman to inflict on anybody, if you ask me, which, unfortunately, my parents didn't, so we have little Ronald Billius Weasley in the family."

"So Guillaume is acceptable as a middle name, zen, is zat what you are saying?" inquired Fleur.

"Sure." He nodded. "I'll just have to figure out how the hell to pronounce it, so I can yell at my son when necessary."

"You speak Gobbledegook, which is even more of a jumble of unpleasant noises zan English is, so you should learn rapidly enough," she reasoned without a trace of sympathy.

"Well," Bill yawned, and rolled over to place his baby name book back on his nightstand, "I'm tired of arguing about names for tonight. I'm going to go to bed, if you don't mind terribly."

"Wait," Fleur ordered, returning her own book to her night-table, "I want to discuss one more thing with you."

"We can shop for baby furniture for the nursery tomorrow, if you want," he stated, guessing that this was what was on her mind, however he was to be proven wrong in this hypothesis when she spoke next.

"No." She shook her head vehemently, her silver hair swinging against him. "My maman claims zat it is bad luck to prepare too much for a baby."

"All right," soothed Bill, squeezing her shoulder in a pacifying gesture, because he did not want her worrying about losing their child as her mother had lost two of hers. "So what do you want to talk about, then?"

"Who do you think should be ze godparents?"

"Charlie can be godfather," he answered automatically, choosing not to poke fun at her for not being willing to purchase furniture for the baby, but being willing to debate about its name and pick who should be the godparents.

"He is always in Romania, though," demurred Fleur. "Maybe for another child."

"Who, then?" Bill's forehead furrowed. "Louis?"

"Maybe for another baby of ours," she allowed, "but for our first, I was thinking of Percy."

"Percy?" Bill sat bolt upright in bed, astounded.

"Why not?" Fleur's arms folded over her chest. "'E is very responsible, and 'e would be flattered to know zat you love and respect 'im enough to make 'im godfather of your first child, and 'e needs to know zat 'e 'as been taken back into ze family entirely. Besides, Charlie and Louis already are aware of what zey mean to you, and zey can wait."

"You're right," he whispered, rubbing his chin, "but we'd better brace ourselves for a long-winded acceptance speech when we announce at Christmas dinner that there is going to be another Weasley come May."

"At least we'll know zat 'e takes 'is obligation seriously," she remarked.

"Oh, that won't be what we'll have to worry about. What we have to be concerned about is him taking his job as godfather far too seriously, which is a likely occurrence as Perce takes everything too seriously. That's why he doesn't appreciate my dazzling sense of humor like everyone else does."

Fleur chose to pay this no mind, and returned to the dilemma of what they were going to call their baby. "We can name our child Louis, if it is a son. Tell Louis zat when you see 'im at work on Monday."

"I will," snickered her husband, "as I shall find it amusing watching him attempt to brush off the honor. Emotions always make him uncomfortable."


	79. Chapter 79

Author's Note: See Chapter 78 about the whole pregnancy thing, please

Author's Note: See Chapter 78 about the whole pregnancy thing, please. Sorry if it took me forever to update, but I was on vacation for a week, and had no Internet access. Happy Fourth of July to all Americans, because I just realized that I forgot to say that. Well, that just mimics how slow it was for the news to reach all the colonies about the Declaration of Independence, because there was no Fedex back then, and the roads were absolutely dreadful, because Eisenhower hadn't come along with his highway plans to increase mobility during the Cold War, something that our Founders probably didn't see in their crystal balls, never having studied Divination with Trelawney.

Reviews: Are lovely, especially because I'm feeling very dumb at the moment, since I only got a 26 composite score on my ACT, and I only made the 85 percentile nationally, on average. (I hate Math so much. It makes me seem so dumb, or maybe I really am stupid, but I prefer to think of myself as seeming dumb rather than being it.) Of course, that means I'd really better get cracking on my college application essay, because my parents and my guidance counselor are going to be mad at me again, so I better have a decent essay to pacify them with, but I don't really want to babble on about a formative life experience of mine at the moment, so I'm writing this, instead.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to my two sisters and my brother, because siblings are forever, and I love teaching them, and being taught by them, and it has been wonderful torturing them, and being tortured by them. Life would be so boring without them all, and they are such a good inspiration for the Weasleys, so I thought I should acknowledge them in case I decide to end this fic soon.

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Changes

December arrived in a storm of snow, hail, and ice, which prompted Fleur to sigh wistfully about how much milder the winter weather in France was. Before Bill knew it, it was December 23rd, and, after slipping into his own dress robes, he was assisting his wife in donning her favorite blue silk gown, which she was having difficulty putting on, due to her expanding waistline. Once he had helped her into her dress, he wrapped her diamond necklace about her throat, and clasped it for her, as she put in her hoop earrings.

"I just thought of something," she gasped suddenly, as they began to hasten downstairs and outside, so that they could Apparate to Christmas dinner at her parents' house.

"What?" he asked somewhat anxiously, as they reached the first floor landing.

"We never chose who would be our baby's godmother," she replied, while they raced outdoors onto the snow-covered lawn, which was glittering like a massive glass crystal in the moonlight and starlight thanks to the pristine flakes piled upon the ground. "Maman and Papa will want to know we 'ave chosen once we tell zem zat I am in ze family way."

"You're right." About to Apparate, Bill halted in his tracks. Biting his lip thoughtfully, he informed her, "Well, your sister Gabrielle can be godmother, if you wish."

"No." Fleur shook her silver mane after a few seconds' pause. "She is too young. She'll be better for another child. Ginny will be preferable. We'll tell her tomorrow at ze same time we tell Percy."

"Very well." Smiling at the idea of Ginny serving as godmother to his baby, Bill twirled on the spot and Disapparated, while Fleur mirrored him on his right. Seconds later, they materialized outside a pretty yellow house with a well-groomed French garden. "'Ere we are," stated Fleur, opening the gate, and stepping onto the brick pathway.

Looking around as he followed his spouse's footsteps, Bill realized that there was no snow on the ground, no ice frozen in patches on the path, and his thick, wool cloak was probably overkill for the temperature here. He had just completed this observation when a blur of pink, illuminated in the candles that were shining on the stone patio where Madame and Monsieur Delacour were awaiting their arrival, charged toward them, her sheet of molten silver hair trailing behind her, her white silk cape flapping in the wind like a banner.

"Fleur!" screamed Gabrielle, the dash of pink, darting up to her older sibling, and flinging her arms around her, as though the addressed had just risen from the dead. As Fleur bent down to return the embrace with equal fervor, Bill registered that in the year or more that he had not seen his sister-in-law, she had grown several inches, and her body was no longer just that of a young girl's. Surely, if Harry Potter could meet her again, he would fall in love with her, rather than with Ginny…

"I 'ave missed you so much," continued Gabrielle, pulling away from her sister enough for Bill to spot that her cheeks, like Fleur's, resembled autumn apples, because they were flushed with the night.

"I missed you, too," Fleur answered, finger-combing the girl's locks. "You 'ave on a beautiful pink dress. Ze color suits you very well."

However, Gabrielle ignored the compliment, and frowned, "You are fatter zan you were before. It must be because you are married, and don't 'ave to worry about your appearance now."

"Gabrielle," scolded Madame Delacour, who had glided over to them, her plump husband bouncing merrily in her wake, unbeknownst to Bill and the other two, "zat is no way to talk to your sister! It is rude to say zat someone is fat."

"But it's ze truth," Gabrielle protested. "She is fatter zan she was last time zat I saw 'er, Maman."

"Just because something is true, zat doesn't mean it is ze proper thing to say," explained her father, as Madame Delacour strode over to her elder daughter, and wrapped her arms around her.

"You look lovely," Madame Delacour assured Fleur, kissing both her cheeks, as Monsieur Delacour stepped over to Bill, and hugged him.

Somewhat taken aback by this display of affection, Bill returned the embrace a little awkwardly, probably coming across as stiff as Percy.

"Ze Eenglish do not know 'ow to 'ug each other properly," laughed Monsieur Delacour, releasing him, "I 'ave always said zis. Zey are such a cold people. You would think zat ze freezing climate would make zem want to 'old each other more, but, no, zey want to carry around ze icy temperature in zeir 'earts, as well."

"Speaking of ze cold," Madame Delacour remarked, "perhaps we should go inside."

Obediently, the five of them followed her up the garden path, and into the house, where they found themselves in a cheery living room, filled with comfortable furniture and family photographs, with holly and evergreens strung upon the mantle, and a Christmas tree in the far corner, with a few stray presents placed on a blanket that had been tucked under it to catch any falling needles.

As they all seated themselves on the sofas around the coffee table where Madame Delacour had arrayed a platter of crackers and brie cheese beside a pot of coffee, which was accompanied by small pitchers of cream and sugar, Gabrielle pointed smugly at the tree, and educated Fleur, "I picked it out all by myself zis year, and Papa said zat it was charmant."

"He says zat every year," scoffed Fleur, glancing wistfully at the coffee, but not pouring herself any. "Zat doesn't mean zat it is true, and, anyway, zat tree I selected ze year before ze Triwizard Tournament was definitely prettier, wasn't it, Papa?"

"It was beautiful, yes, but I could never chose just one tree zat I thought was better," smiled their father. "Zat is like asking me to pick which of my daughters is lovelier."

"Zat would 'ave been a challenge when were equally attractive, but now zat Fleur 'as fattened up, it is clear zat I am se more stunning one, non?" argued Gabrielle, sticking up her nose in a fashion that reminded Bill irresistibly of his wife. "Just as my tree is undeniably more beautiful."

"I'll have you know zat zere is a reason why I'm plumper now." Copying her sister, Fleur stuck her nose up in the air disdainfully. "When you are pregnant with your 'usband's child, you'll gain weight, too!"

A quiet so absolute that every cackle of the logs in the fireplace made as the roaring flames surrounded and conquered them, could be heard greeted this announcement, and then Madame Delacour echoed, "You're pregnant?"

"Oui, Maman." Beaming, Fleur bobbed her head in an energetic confirmation.

"Zat's…Zat's wonderful," faltered her mother, whose hand was still frozen in mid-air, because she had been about to help herself to a cracker with brie cheese when her older daughter had imparted this astonishing news. "It's such a shock, though. I could faint."

"'E did," declared Fleur, nudging Bill, who would feel the burning sensation of a blush mounting on his cheeks, neck, and ears. Damn his traitorous Weasley blood, which betrayed him at times like these, and damn his wife for humiliating him like this. Honestly, if she had passed out, he would have been courteous enough not to mention it in front of his family.

"I didn't faint," he countered, willing his flush to disappear with minimal success. "Rather, I examined the carpet to see if it needed more tacks with my eyes closed."

"Men and zeir pride," snorted Fleur, rolling her eyes.

Before Bill could retort, Monsieur Delacour winked at him. "You might not know 'ow to 'ug correctly, but you obviously know 'ow to do everything else zat is important."

"Luc!" hissed Madame Delacour, kicking her husband in the shins, which indicated that Fleur had inherited her vexing penchant for kicking the poor ankles of loved one's from her mother. "Gabrielle is 'ere!"

"Sorry," Monsieur Delacour apologized, although his grin remained firmly entrenched, something that caused Bill to hope that one day his spouse's kicked would not hurt him as much as they did now. "Anyway, congratulations, both of you! I'm so 'appy for you two. I 'ope zat it is a boy."

"Luc!" chided Madame Delacour again, though this time she did not kick him.

"What?" the one who was reprimanded demanded. "Why can't I say zat? I do wish for a grandson, but, of course, I will be pleased with a granddaughter, whom I shall dote on as I did with my own daughters."

"So 'ow long 'ave you known?" asked Madame Delacour, focusing on her elder child.

"Since ze first day of October, but I 'ave been pregnant since early September," Fleur responded. "Ze due date is May the third."

"And you're only telling us about zis now?" For the first time, Gabrielle spoke up, sounding indignant.

"I wanted to wait until ze end of ze first trimester to tell anyone except Bill, because zat is when a miscarriage is most likely," explained Fleur gently, patting her sibling's hand.

"Zat is a wise decision," Madame Delacour affirmed, tears sparkling in her eyes. "It is so 'ard to get everyone's 'opes up for nothing."

As Monsieur Delacour reached out, and clutched his wife's hand in support, Fleur resumed, "By zat time, it was near enough to Christmas zat I felt it could wait. After all, I would much rather tell you all in person, as opposed to by owl."

"Zen you get ze benefit of seeing all our astonished faces," joked her father, as he shoved himself to his feet, and the rest of the assembly copied his movements. "Let's go into ze dining room, and 'ave some of Apolline's delicious dinner."

"Gabrielle, set ze table, and zen 'elp me bring in ze supper," ordered Madame Delacour, as the five of them entered the dining room, which was dominated by a massive oak table, decorated with ornaments and festoons of holly for the occasion. At her command, Gabrielle hurried into the kitchen, which was the next room over, and emerged a handful of seconds later, bearing knives, spoons, and cups. "Fleur, just sit down and relax. Remember, don't eat anything zat you don't want to. It is so easy to get sick when you are pregnant, and, remember, do not drink any of ze champagne. We must all try to remember not to offer it to you. After all, we don't want your baby born with fetal alcohol syndrome."

With that last tidbit of advice, Madame Delacour glided into the kitchen, and returned within a minute, carrying a gigantic turkey. By this time, Gabrielle had finished laying the table, and went into the kitchen to retrieve potatoes, gravy, baguettes, butter, and peas. When all the food had been settled upon the table, Monsieur Delacour led them all in a prayer, which included a plea for the safe birth of Fleur's child, and then he carved the turkey, and passed plates around to everyone.

"'Ave you chosen any names yet?" inquired Gabrielle exuberantly, piling a spoonful of potato and turkey bathed in gravy into her mouth. "If it is a girl, you should name it after me."

"You are prouder zan a lion," Fleur commented, slowly eating her potatoes without any gravy. "We 'aven't decided on a name for ze baby, if it is a girl, but I don't have any intention of naming 'er after you."

"Why not?" Bill popped a slice of turkey into his mouth after he dipped it in gravy, feeling somewhat sympathetic toward his wife, because she couldn't have any. "I can pronounce her name."

"Well, maybe as a middle name," conceded Fleur, and Gabrielle whooped.

"And what will you call it if it is a son?" pressed Monsieur Delacour, pouring himself a glass of champagne.

"Louis Guillaume," replied Fleur. "If it is a boy, 'e will be named after Bill's friend, and Bill himself, of course."

"Zat's a nice name," observed her mother. "I am glad to see zat you are sticking with French ones, since you are French, after all."

"And who will be ze godparents?" pressed Madame Delacour.

"Bill's younger brother Percy will be ze godfather, and Bill's little sister Ginny will be ze godmother."

"Why can't I be ze godmother?" Gabrielle pouted.

"You're not old enough," reasoned Fleur. "If we 'ave more children, on ze of chance zat I want to go through ze agony of pregnancy again, you can be godmother to one of zem."

"I don't like waiting very much," Gabrielle sighed petulantly, widening her baby blue eyes to increase the odds of getting what she desired.

"Which just reinforces the point zat you're not mature enough to be godmother," noted Fleur, obviously unimpressed by her sister's manipulations of her prettiness. Waggling a threatening fork at her sibling, she added, "And don't you dare sulk about zis, because out child might 'ave your name as its middle one, if it is a girl."

At this reminder, Gabrielle's pout was transformed into a glowing, pearly smile, and the meal continued.

The next night at six o'clock Bill and Fleur Apparated to the Burrow, where they would eat Christmas Eve dinner with the rest of the Weasley family. When they knocked on the door, Mrs. Weasley admitted them, and gestured for them to be seated at the table, where her husband, Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, a towering black girl that Bill recognized from the final battle and Fred's funeral and who George introduced as Angelina Johnson, and Ginny.

"Percy should be along any minute," mumbled Mrs. Weasley, as she removed an enormous ham from the oven. Then, she spun around, and placed carrots and Yorkshire pudding beside it. "He told me that he had to collect his new girlfriend prior to coming here."

"Percy has a girlfriend?" sputtered George, nearly spitting out his sip of pumpkin juice all over Angelina, who must have foreseen this would happen, and had raised her napkin as a shield.

"That's right," agreed Mrs. Weasley briskly, as she sat down at the end of the table opposite her spouse. "I believe he said her name was Audrey Baynes."

"Audrey Baynes?" Angelina frowned, as if she was struggling to remember something. "I think she was a Ravenclaw three years above us, wasn't she, George?"

"Probably," shrugged George, "Perce does seem to have a thing for Ravenclaws. Remember how he was with Penelope Clearwater?"

Before any of them could respond, there was a rap on the door, and Mrs. Weasley sang out, "He's here," and leapt to her feet to admit Percy and his girlfriend. Once she had opened the door, Percy entered, looking exhilarated with cherries for cheeks, in the company of a woman with chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders and steel gray eyes. Personally, Bill found the woman neither attractive nor offensive, just plain, not even painfully plain. Still, she did emanate a sense of purpose, and of cleverness that his younger brother doubtlessly was drawn to.

"Everyone, this is Audrey Baynes," Percy pronounced, as soon as he had finished hanging up his and his girlfriend's cloaks on the pegs on the wall beside the door. "She is my girlfriend, and she's a lawyer. That's how we met, actually, because I was assisting her with a demanding case that she was working upon, which required extensive research in the Ministry Archives."

"And I was immensely grateful for his aid," cut in Audrey. "It was remarkable how much he knew about previous legal cases regarding alleged underage wizarding robberies."

"You did all the hard work, synthesizing all the data I collected." Percy dismissed this with an airy wave of his hand, although the crimson color that rose on his face implied that he was pleased by the compliment. "Anyway, Audrey," he went on, pulling out one of the two remaining chairs clustered around the table, and bowing her into it. Once she was settled, he seated himself, and nodded in the direction of his mother. "That's my mother, Mrs. Molly Weasley."

As Mrs. Weasley smiled and shook hands with Percy's new girlfriend, clearly pleased by the fact that she had gotten to meet her prior to the engagement, and confident that any woman selected by Percy as a potential mate would have no rule or law breaking tendencies, Percy continued with the introductions, this time nodding at his father. "That's my dad, Mr. Arthur Weasley." Audrey shook hands with Mr. Weasley this time. "Across the table is my older brother, William, who prefers to be called Bill, and his wife, Fleur. My younger brother George, and Miss Angelina Johnson, his friend―"

"Girlfriend," interjected George. "If you can't see that, Perce, you need a new glasses prescription."

"Friend," hissed Angelina. "If you can't see that, George, then you need glasses, and Percy's are serving him just fine."

"Girlfriend," George insisted, "and you're the one who needs glasses, if you can't spot that."

Bill sniggered as the debate raged on. However, Percy was not amused, and barely paused to shoot the pair of them a withering glance before plunging on. "My youngest brother, Ronald, who is known familiarly as Ron, accompanied by his girlfriend, Miss Hermione Granger. Last, but certainly not least my little sister, Ginerva, who likes to be addressed as Ginny, with Mr. Harry Potter, her boyfriend."

"Friend who happens to be a boy," corrected Bill under his breath, but, fortunately, nobody but his spouse, who spared him a pitying look, noticed this, because Audrey had spoken.

"I'm very excited to be meeting all of you at last," she declared, "because Percy has told me so much about every single one of you."

"Don't worry," drawled George, and Angelina giggled. "We're not quite as awful as he made us sound, and, if we like you, we won't throw food at you."

"Obviously, you are every bit as amusing as your brother claimed you were," laughed Audrey, as Mrs. Weasley, glowering at George, started to cut the ham, and pass plates of meat, pudding, and carrots around.

"Percy finds me funny," gasped George, his eyes expanding comically. "I never knew that fact. I'm touched, simply touched more than words can explain."

By the time the final words had escaped from his lips, everyone had received a platter loaded with food, and had helped themselves to either wine or pumpkin juice, so silence reigned for several minutes, while everybody gobbled down the feast, as though they hadn't eaten in a millennium, as was the holiday custom.

Then, once his mouth and stomach were beginning to protest the rigorous rate of his food consumption, Bill announced, "Fleur and I have some good news for everyone."

"You're moving to France?" guessed George.

"I said good news, idiot."

"That is good news," persisted the younger Weasley, a malevolent glint in his eyes.

"No, it would only be good news if you were the one leaving the country." Bill glared at him, and then finished, "Anyway, Fleur's pregnant."

Quiet, in which Ron and Ginny stared at him as if neither of them understood the last word that had emerged from his mouth, Percy gaped at him in an astounding breach of table etiquette, and Mr. Weasley's fork toppled out of his hand, and onto his dish with a clatter that resounded in the silence, and, then, a beaming Mrs. Weasley jumped to her feet, and launched herself at Fleur, screaming, "Oh, my dear! That's magnificent!" She kissed Fleur, who seemed a little wrong-footed by this intense display, all over her face. "How far into your pregnancy are you, dear?"

"About four and an 'alf months," answered Fleur, as her mother-in-law released her, panting somewhat.

"Well, send me an owl if you ever want advice or anything, or just to complain to someone who understands how it feels to lug around a baby for nine months," Mrs. Weasley instructed her, as she returned to her seat, smiling broadly. "Husbands mean well and all, but they just don't comprehend the hell on earth that is pregnancy, and I have endured it seven times, after all."

"Thank you." Fleur nodded. "I will be sure to keep zat in mind."

However, Bill was not entirely certain that his mum heard his wife's reply, as she had pivoted to face her spouse. "Arthur, you and I are going to be grandparents! Isn't that very exciting?"

"Yes, it's very exciting, indeed, Molly," agreed Mr. Weasley, who had finally recovered enough to speak. Focusing on Bill and Fleur, he added, "Congratulations. So, have you thought about names for your baby yet?"

"Nah, we think it's one of those things best accomplished on the spur of the moment at St. Mungo's," teased Bill, but Fleur nudged him so hard in the ribs that his stomach threatened to regurgitate the ham, Yorkshire pudding, and carrots that he had consumed, which would be a pity, because he doubted they would taste as delicious the second time around, and, if he did, that would destroy his appetite for the rest of the meal.

"We 'ave decided on Louis Guillaume if it is a boy. 'E will be named after Bill's friend, Louis, and Bill 'imself, as Guillaume is ze French form of William, but we 'aven't decided on anything for a girl yet, except that Gabrielle is a good middle name, because Bill can pronounce it."

"Have you told your parents yet?" Mrs. Weasley inquired of Fleur.

"We told zem last night when we went over for supper," responded Fleur. "Papa wants a grandson, but 'e said zat 'e would still be 'appy with a granddaughter."

"Well, you might just give him what he wants," murmured Mrs. Weasley, "as the Weasley line, as you might have surmised, runs high to males, and it really is the father who determines such things, if you take my meaning."

"Or we could be seventh time lucky, like my parents were," observed Bill, smirking, as he plopped his last slab of ham into his mouth.

"I'm not 'aving seven children for anyone, and zat includes you." Fleur stabbed a carrot with extra vehemence to emphasize her point.

"Well, I don't want seven devils roaming about my house, either, so don't fret." Bill eyed Ginny and Percy. "So, Ginny, would you be godmother, and, Percy, would you be godfather?"

"I'd be delighted to," grinned Ginny.

"Are you positive that you don't want Charlie to be godfather, instead of me?" Percy's forehead knit, and he gazed at his older sibling as though convinced that one of them was losing his sanity.

"I'm sure," he nodded, his heart aching at the fact that his little brother would ask that question at all. "Unless, of course, you don't wish to take on the responsibility, in which case I can shove it onto Charlie."

"No, no," Percy reassured him quickly, "I am most honored to accept this awesome responsibility that you and your wife have been kind enough to offer me. To the best of my abilities, I will strive to fulfill the duties and obligations of a godfather, since you have entrusted me with the solemn undertaking―"

"God, Perce, relax," interrupted Bill, bored by this sermon. "You'll do just fine, and the responsibilities of a godfather are few and far apart. All you have to do is be present at the baptism and Confirmation, and shower your godchild with extra nice gifts at the family gatherings― that's the most challenging part, actually, but bear in mind that gift certificates to cool stores count as extra special presents, and require minimal effort."

"I shall still do my very best to fulfill my obligations to my future godchild."

The last sentence had barely parted company with Percy's lips before Ron exploded, "Bill's not the only one with a surprise! In fact, Hermione and I have a bigger and better one."

"Ron," chided Hermione, drawing out his name, as the addressed snatched up her hand, and showed the entire congregation a sparkling diamond ring.

"We're engaged." Ron's telegraphic announcement pierced the stunned silence. Lord, he and Hermione had only been dating each other for a few months, Bill observed mentally, and yet they were engaged to each other…Wow, Bill would never have pegged Hermione as the sort who married as soon as she graduated…Sure, she could still have a career and everything, but still…"We're going to be married in July."

"You're getting married?" echoed Bill dully. "And, excuse my rudeness, but how on earth did you afford that ring when you don't even have a job?"

"Harry purchased it, as a gift." Ron shrugged. "Ginny has got one just like it from Harry."

"Ginny has one from Harry?" Like a parrot, Bill repeated this, as well.

"Yes, I have a ring like Hermione's." Revealing all her perfect teeth, Ginny beamed, and held up her hand to show off a glittering diamond ring that matched Hermione's. "I'm going to be wed to Harry at the same time Ron marries Hermione."

Upon learning this, Bill's hands clenched about his knife. It would be so wonderful to use it to lob off Potter's head, or to stab in Potter heart, or to chop off various other important parts of Potter's anatomy, because no man was ever going to put his hands on Ginny. Still, it wouldn't due to commit homicide in front of so many potential witnesses, who might not like having to choose whether they liked him or Potter more. No, it was far more judicious to step back, and allow his parents to handle it.

However, unfortunately, they did not find the mental image of Ginny married to Potter as revolting as he did, for Mrs. Weasley squealed, "Oh, Harry― Hermione! We're going to be a real family now. How great, how great!"

With that, she rose, and ran at Potter, and embraced him. When he nearly choked, something that at the moment Bill would not have minded witnessing, she let him go, and almost strangled Hermione in a hug, instead.

"Congratulations. Welcome to the family, then," Mr. Weasley commented, offering a somewhat bemused grin, as his wife released a gasping Hermione, and returned to her chair once more. Eyeing George and Percy, he asked dryly, "Do either of you have any surprises for your mum and I, or is our risk of going into cardiac arrest done for the evening?"

"Yeah, now that you mention it I have a little surprise." Wearing an expression of mock sincerity, George faced Angelina. "Darling, will you marry me, sweet one? If you say 'yes', I will love and cherish you for all the days of my life, and I will gladly go broke clothe you in all the gems your splendor deserves."

"I'll have to think about it." Angelina pretended to frown as though she were in the midst of deep thought. "I have to decide if you or Lee Jordan is hotter before I make up my mind, you see."

"Well, then, forget it," huffed George. "You can't love two, and still be true."

Shaking his head, Mr. Weasley focused on Percy. "What about you? Do you have any surprises?"

"Dad," Percy answered pompously, "Audrey and I have only known each other for a month. That's much too soon to be thinking about proposals."

Not long after that, supper concluded, and everyone went into the living room to listen to Celestina Warbeck's annual Christmas Eve special broadcast. Figuring that now was an excellent opportunity to converse with his sister privately, Bill extended an arm to halt her progress as she passed him alongside Harry on her way into the sitting room.

"May I have a word with you, lioness?" he asked when she arched her eyebrows at him.

She bobbed her head in assent, kissed Harry farewell on the cheek, something that prompted Bill's blood to boil, and led him upstairs to her bedroom, not appearing exactly sorry to have an excuse to avoid listening to Celestina's "music" for awhile.

"So, you're marrying Potter, then?" he demanded when they arrived in her bedroom, and settled themselves upon her bed.

"Oh, he's Potter now, not Harry?" Ginny's arctic tone made him feel as chilled as he would have if he had stepped through Nearly Headless Nick. "It's funny how that can change with the drop of a hat with you."

"He's Harry as long as he's not messing around with my sister." Bill bit his lip, and then abandoned any effort at tact, and poured out precisely what was on his mind, in a manner that would have made Ron proud, no doubt, "You're too young to marry."

"Plenty of others have gotten married right after graduation, and if Mum and Dad aren't blowing a major artery about it, I don't see why you have to."

"I do because I love you." Merlin, he sounded like a parent lecturing a child already, and that wasn't a good thing.

"And Mum and Dad don't?" snorted Ginny.

"I'm trying to protect you," Bill went on, deciding that it was prudent to ignore her argument, because there was no doubt that his parents loved their only daughter. Swallowing, he strove to devise a delicate manner of posing the question that had dominated his brain ever since Potter and Ginny had announced their engagement, and came out with, "Are you, as they say, in trouble with Potter?"

"No!"

Thinking that all young women would probably answer thus, Bill pressed on, "If you are, you can tell me. I promise I won't kill P―Harry, since it seems as if he's trying to do the right thing by you."

"I wouldn't marry someone just because I was carrying his child," snarled Ginny, her eyes sizzling at him. "And, as I said before, I'm not pregnant with Potter's baby. Your own baby is on your mind too much if you think that way!"

However, Bill only paid attention to the first segment of her comment, and replied, "I'm glad to hear it, tigress, because there are, um, other ways of dealing with this sort of problem."

"I wouldn't kill my baby if I was pregnant!"

"Of course not," Bill soothed her hastily, patting her arm in an attempt to pacify her, "I swear that I wasn't referring to that, but there is always adoption. You know, then your child will be placed in a good home with parents that can care for it properly, and you can pursue your career without any burden, which would be best for both your baby and you, as it is cruel to try to care for a baby you know you cannot afford. And, you can always leave your baby at St. Mungo's in the legal custody of the government, although I advise against that, because I don't trust the Ministry as far as I can throw a stallion."

"For Merlin's sake, open up your ears, Bill! I'm not pregnant! Have you got that through your thick head now, or do I have to go through the agony of repeating myself yet again?"

Something in her tone finally penetrated him, and he whispered, "Why are you getting married, then?"

"Because I love Harry and he loves me," Ginny responded on an eye roll. "Just like you did, I'm marrying for love."

"How romantic. God, Ginny," Bill swore, "you're too young for marriage."

"I'm not that much younger than Fleur was when you proposed to her!" his little sister fired back. "And Harry and I have known each other for years!"

"But I was older than Harry is, so I had finished messing around with girls by then."

"Harry would never betray me with another woman, if that's what you're hinting at." Ginny's eyes contracted. "Why are you acting like this, anyhow, huh? Even Ron isn't being such a git about it, and I thought you trusted Harry."

"I trust him in everything except this sort of thing. Sex can make any guy I jerk, believe me."

"I'm going to wed him, no matter what you say." Her arms folded over her chest.

"Do what you want," Bill sighed, fiddling with her covers, "because I'd be hard pressed indeed to stop you. Just remember, if Harry ever hurts you in any fashion, write me an owl, and I'll find a way to kill him, even if he is going to become an Auror and ought to be skilled at uncovering that sort of thing. I might have to use Untraceable Poison, because, after all, he never liked Potions."

"Harry would never hurt me, and everyone hated Potions when Snape taught it."

"Of course everyone hated Potions when Snape taught it, and Harry had better not hurt you. You can tell him that from me, and remind him that his Patronus might be a stag, which connotes power and all, but mine is a sphinx, and sphinxes are very intelligent beings, and they are generally quite harmless until the treasure they are guarding is endangered. Then, they are downright lethal. Remind him of just how careful one should be around a possessive sphinx."

"Oh, don't to this," moaned Ginny, "don't you see this is exactly what I did to you when you were engaged to Fleur, and don't you recall how much you hated it? I was convinced that Fleur was shallow, unworthy of you, and would eventually leave you, and now you're positive that Harry isn't good enough for me, and is taking advantage of me, and will one day abandon me, or otherwise injure me. I guess it demonstrates how much we love each other that we behave like this, but it takes even more love to stop acting like a bear with a sore head. It takes loads more love to trust that a loved one can make the correct decision, and would only give their heart to someone special. I learned that when I saw Fleur shout to Mum in the hospital wing that she was going to stay with you no matter what, because she was beautiful enough for the both of you, and that all your scars showed is that you were brave, when I was convinced that she would leave you then, or give some stupid, trite comment about how looks didn't mean anything, if she was half as decent as you believed. But, no, she was able to see the scars as something handsome in their own right, and that's when I knew she loved you for you, and was good enough for you, and that you were right all along."

Bill considered this for a moment, and then nodded. "Don't deliver that implied threat to Harry, then, and just tell him I said may fair fortune be yours, as Trelawney would say, unless she has invented something more melodramatic since my days of Divination lessons tragically concluded, because you're right for the first and only time in your life."

"You mean that you're correct for the first and only time in your life, because you agreed with me," retorted Ginny, tossing her pillow at his head. In revenge, he sprang forward, and tickled her feet until she squealed for him to stop.

"We'd better go downstairs and have our poor eardrums traumatized yet again by the charming Celestina Warbeck," he observed, ceasing to tickle her. "Fleur will be wondering where I've got to, and I don't want to distress her, as she's been an emotional roller coaster ever since she, um, had the second immaculate conception in history, and she'll be most upset if I'm not there for our song, 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.'"

"Is that the one that she imitated once?" Ginny snickered, as they exited her room, and started to descend the stairwell.

"Yeah," Bill confirmed, chuckling. "She did a pretty good job―almost as good as Charlie could do, if he ever had the nerve. I still owe Dad a favor for deciding to fetch everyone eggnog to distract Mum. Maybe I'll get him a really nice birthday gift this year, but, of course, I'm already going to be broke, as I'm planning on purchasing Mum and Dad a really expensive anniversary present, because now that I'm about to become a parent myself, I'm beginning to realize what an awesome job they did, even with annoying and headstrong me."

That night, after they returned home from the Burrow, Fleur remarked, "You're parents are right, you know zat?"

"What are they right about?" Bill replied more than a little absently, as they made their way upstairs to prepare for bed.

"About us needing to pick a name for our baby if it is a girl," she responded, as the both entered the bedroom.

"That's something that is easier said than done." As he established as much, Bill withdrew his pajamas from his dresser drawer, and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. When he returned to their bedroom, he saw that Fleur was already curled up in bed with the covers around her expansive belly, her French baby name book out.

"You want to think about that now?" he groaned.

"Tomorrow is Christmas," she reminded him, as if he would have forgotten a day on which he would receive presents, "so we can sleep as late as we wish."

"Unless Errol comes barging in at the break of day bearing our new sweaters, as he was considerate enough to do last year."

"We can always roll over, and go back to sleep," reasoned Fleur, and Bill lost the opportunity to contend that he couldn't because he was a delicate sleeper, who found it impossible to return to dreamland, once his slumber had rudely been interrupted, when she continued, "And I would know, because my sleep is always interrupted, as I need to make trips to ze bathroom."

"It's good practice for the baby, and if we stay up late tonight Santa Claus won't come," Bill mumbled, defeated, grabbing his baby name book off the nightstand, and flicking to the girl's section disinterestedly. For all he cared at the moment, they could give their daughter some dreadful name like Columbine. "How about Michelle? Or Nicole? Or Jessica? Or Lauren?"

"Too common and plain, all of zem." Fleur waved a dismissive hand. "'Ow about Antoinette?"

"We're not naming our baby after an ill-fated queen of France, whose head was chopped off by a guillotine, because she allegedly declared that the peasants of France should eat cake in response to the statement that the common people of her country had no bread."

"Zen what about Aimee?"

"Everyone willl think that we're too dumb to spell Amy properly. Now, what about Allison?"

"Sounds like a boy's name, because it ends in 'son'," grumbled Fleur.

"Well, it was once unisex, I suppose," Bill conceded, "but now it is definitely a girl's name, just like Stacey and Leslie are."

"'Ow about Emilie?" Fleur ignored his remark.

"Again, people will assume that we don't know how to spell Emily. So, what do you think of Melissa? Or Alyssa?"

"Zey sound like 'orrid diseases. What do you think of Angelique or Angele? Zey mean 'divine messenger', and we can name our baby after Angelina, who made George smile and joke again."

For a moment, he chewed his lip thoughtfully, and, then answered, "It's a lovely notion and all, but I don't really care for them sound of either of them. I much prefer the English versions of Angelina, Angela, or even Angelica, which I'm not a big fan of, actually."

"You don't like ze sound of many French names." Fleur drew herself up haughtily.

"And you don't care for the sound of many English names," he educated her, "so we'll call it a draw in narrow mindedness as far as names are concerned. What do you think about Victoria, by the way?"

"I'm not naming my baby after one of ze most famous queens in British history, for heaven's sakes," exploded his wife, looking like she desired nothing more at the moment than to whack him across the face with her horrible French name book. "I'm French, and want to do 'omage to my 'eritage."

"Relax," he attempted to soothe her, "I was thinking of a different namesake, for your information."

"What other namesake were you thinking of, zen?" Suspicion laced Fleur's tone.

"The Roman goddess of victory was named Victoria, and you know how successful the Romans were on the battlefield. Laurel leaves were her symbol, which is why, after a triumph, Roman generals returning to the capital city of their empire were crowned in them. Like most Roman gods and goddesses, she was borrowed from the Greek pantheon, and was referred to by the Greeks as Nike, but I thought that, on a whole, Victoria was a more tolerable name than Nike."

"Well, I do like ze namesake zat you 'ave chosen, because it seems fitting to name our child after a goddess of victory in the light of our triumph over You-Know-Who," admitted Fleur, "but I still don't think zat I want to name my daughter Victoria, because ze name is still indelibly associated with your English queen Victoria. 'Ow about Victoire? Zat's French for 'victory.'"

"Sure." Smiling, Bill bobbed his head in assent, stifling a yawn as he put away his name book, while his spouse returned her book to her nightstand. "Our baby will either be Louis Guillaume, or Victoire Gabrielle."

For a second, she smiled wearily at him, but then her grin was abruptly transformed into a wince, as she gasped, and leaned forward to clutch her stomach.

"What's wrong?" he asked, eyes widening. "Should I owl your Healer, or something?"

"No, I'm fine." Briskly, Fleur shook her head at him, although she was still grimacing. Ze baby was just kicking again, but zat is a great thing. It means zat it is active, and healthy, and anxious to escape from my womb." She grabbed his hand, and placed the palm gingerly on top of her belly. "Do you feel it now?"

Indeed, he did. He could feel a tiny foot pressing up against Fleur's skin, pushing in and out like a wave in the sea, or a steadily beating heart. Breathless at the idea of a new life, a life he had created with his wife, forming inside there, and impressed by everything that had been created so far inside her, he could only nod his head mutely at her, grinning like an idiot, or, to put it more kindly, a circus clown.

Finally, the foot ceased kicking, fighting the confines of its mother's uterus, but Bill kept his hand on Fleur's stomach anyhow, as he noted, "Wow, we've got quite a kicker there. You're father might just get his wish, since, with a strong leg like that, our baby is bound to be a boy."

"Our baby could just as easily be a girl," she snapped, "as women can be just as strong as men, and zeir kicks can be just as powerful."

"Yes, you've proven that true, and feminists across the globe are most grateful to you for it," Bill muttered, thinking of how much her kicks wounded his shins, as he flicked his wand, and turned out the lights, and they both drifted off into blessed sleep.


	80. Chapter 80

Author's Note: As always, feel free to tell me if I portray anything about pregnancy inaccurately, but I kept the gore down to a minimum, because, after all, this is a K+ fic, so I don't want to overwhelm anyone who doesn't understand that giving birth is a kind of painful ordeal. It's all based on Health class stuff, and the book my mom gave me about puberty when I entered my teen years, since I've never had a baby, or been there when a baby was born. (And somehow I think I can wait, because it doesn't sound like very much fun, although I'm so glad that I live in a time when we have hospitals, instead of relying upon the village midwife who had seven of her thirteen children survive or something.)

Sorry if this chapter is a little short, but I kind of feel out of my depth here, so that's why I thought I would keep it kind of short to minimize the damage that will result from butchering Victoire's birth.

Spring's Promise

It was around seven o'clock in the evening on May 1st, and Fleur had just finished placing plates of Calmari eggs on the set table before pivoting around to complete slicing up some sort of fish whose smell might have been pleasant to a goblin, but induced nausea in Bill, a phenomenon that wasn't repeated in his wife, despite the fact that most foods caused her to vomit these days.

As he waited for her to join him before he started eating, a task that he was eager to delay as long as humanly possible, as he had never sampled Calamari before, and was perfectly content to remain blissfully ignorant of its taste forever, Bill eyed his platter of fish eggs tentatively. "It's still moving," he mumbled, after a few seconds' of studying his meal.

"If it is, zat means zat it is fresh," she answered absently, as she chopped up what would be tomorrow's delicious supper. "Didn't your maman teach you not to talk about someone else's cooking zat way, because you might offend ze chef?"

"I wouldn't want to offend the chef in this case," he grumbled, contemplating how much a forkful of fish egg, and several goblets of pumpkin juice would fill his stomach, because that appeared to be the dinner that awaited him, "as you might be callous enough to force-feed me more of this gunk, and I would perish as a result."

"Stop zat silly complaining, and don't insult my cooking," Fleur ordered, "or else I'll make a mistake cutting up zis nexu fish, and zen it will poison us tomorrow night when we eat it."

"Is there any particular reason why you've taken a sudden fancy to potentially poisonous magical seafood now that our first child is soon to be born?" He arched an inquiring eyebrow in her direction out of habit, although he understood in the corner of his mind that doing so was futile, as she had her back facing him, and, therefore, could not glimpse his expression. "Or are you just misanthropic in general?"

"No, I just 'appen to 'ave a craving for exotic seafood zis week, ze way I had a craving for salt last week, and sugar ze one before," she shrugged. "Don't worry so much, though. My Healer assured me zat I could eat nexu fish and Calamari as long as zey are served properly."

"We should sue your Healer for medical malpractice, and then he can sue his brains for non-support in order to raise the funds necessary to pay the appropriate reparations to us," Bill noted, but he never received the satisfaction of a retort.

This was the case, because his wife abruptly admitted a piercing, heart-wrenching and heart stopping scream that froze Bill's blood in his veins and arteries, and numbed his brain. God, this was an agonized shriek that he had never heard escape Fleur's lips except in his most terrible nightmare. Automatically, he leapt out of his chair, as though a hive of enraged hornets had swarmed down upon him.

"Should I owl your Healer, or something?" he demanded anxiously, racing over to her, and guiding her over to a seat, which she collapsed into.

"Don't bother," she panted, finally ceasing her screaming to his relief. "Just get me to St. Mungo's quickly. Ze baby is coming!"

"Are you sure?" He stared at her, as if she had just stated that she was the Virgin Mary. Yes, he knew, intellectually, that her due date was very near, and those things were merely approximations, science's attempts to prepare humans for the random behavior of Mother Nature, but still, he had never actually thought that this day would come, and now that it had, he was not at all certain that he was adequately prepared for this. He had never been called upon to stand beside a woman when she gave birth, and he wasn't eager to find out how he would do in such a situation, but, if she was correct, then he didn't have much of a choice.

"Of course I'm certain about zis," she snarled, grimacing when pain clearly tore though her body again. "I can feel ze contractions, for Merlin's sake!"

Grabbing her right hand as a spasm of fear rippled through him, because he really did not feel ready to assist as best he could his wife in bringing a new life into this world, he pulled her to her feet as carefully as he could, striving to avoid hurting her or the baby she carried. Despite his efforts, though, she still winced when he helped her to her feet. Once she was standing, he asked in one giant breath, "Can you Side-Along Apparate?"

"Only since I was three." Fleur's lips quirked.

"Good," he sighed, a weight falling off his back, because it was hardly advisable for his spouse to Apparate for herself in her present condition, but Apparation was the fastest route to travel to St. Mungo's, and Flooing or flying there would definitely make her sick. Then, he clasped her hand tightly in his, as if he was afraid of losing her, and Disapparated.

A few seconds later, they were in the hospital atrium, where the Welcome Witch took one glance at them, determined instantly what they were here for, and rang a bell to summon a Healer to aid them. From what seemed like several kilometers' worth of distance, Bill watched as Fleur was laid upon a magically floating stretcher, and hurried down the corridors of St. Mungo's to a free room, and was only vaguely aware of himself charging down the hallways beside her on her right, his feet shattering the quiet of the medical facility as they clattered against the floor. He didn't even notice that he almost banged into three Healers, and collided with two of the hospital guests who were in the halls en route to the room where Fleur would deliver her baby, and he barely registered in his peripheral vision that the Healer had hooked her up to various potions intended to make a birth safer and smoother, and devices designed to monitor hers and the baby's vital statistics.

In fact, the only thing that he was conscious of was of her wails, which became louder and more pronounced as her labor progressed, which suggested that the potions were not very effective, as the contractions ripped through her, seemingly more excruciating every time. Helplessly, he clutched her hand, and mumbled encouragements that sounded hollow even to his own ears, because, after all, he would never experience anything comparable to this, and so anything he told her was essentially useless, unless a distraction somehow lessened the agony she was in, which he doubted very much. Occasionally, he would have the illusion of being beneficial to her, when he could hand her some ice or hold a plastic cup of water up to her mouth between contractions, so that she could remain hydrated, although, he recognized that the Healer could have accomplished this just as well, even if he did appear busy with reminding Fleur to inhale and exhale properly throughout the ordeal that was labor.

When she grasped his hand, Bill didn't care that she squeezed his fingers and palm so tightly that the bones therein were transformed to mush, because, after awhile, his hands became numb, and, anyway, if clenching him like this could assuage even a millionth of the agony she was enduring, then it was worth it. After all, the paint he was in was nothing next to what she was going through, unless, of course, you counted the anguish that was the product of witnessing a loved one suffer so much that they shouted as if the devil himself were torturing them with something even worse than the Cruciatus Curse, and being unable to provide any assistance, of being as ineffective as a Muggle lifeboat with a massive hole in the bottom of it.

As he listened to the hours tick by, until it was past midnight, and as he watched the sky outside darken steadily and inexorably until it became as black as his mood, he wondered how he could ever love or even harbor affection toward his child, knowing it had inflicted such agony upon his spouse. Gosh, he fumed to the heavens, as the Healer finally announced that he could see a head emerging, glancing down at the sweat and blood soaked hospital sheets that had once been a snowy white, why did birth have to be so ugly? Why did something that was so promising and beautiful like a new life have to commence in such a fashion? Beauty should be accompanied by loveliness, softness, and joy, not blood, shrieks, wails, sweat, and pain.

Such musings were evicted from his mind when the baby, a girl, gradually fell into the Healer's waiting arms, and he cut the umbilical cord with the expert precision that resulted from being present for the births of hundreds of children. Once the newborn had been detached from her mother, she began to sob, apparently preferring the warm, moist, and dark environment of Fleur's uterus to the coldness and the piercing brightness of the outside world.

"I'll go run some blood tests, clean your child up, put some drops to prevent infection in here eyes, and test her hearing, vision, and basic reflexes, and then I'll come back here so we can complete a birth certificate for her," the Healer informed them. As he wrapped the newly born Victoire in a blanket, and bustled out of the room, he tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought, "By the way, the afterbirth will probably exit the mother while I'm out, but it's nothing to be concerned about, and, when I return, I shall order that the sheets on the bed be changed."

Weakly, Fleur nodded her head in comprehension, her eyes trailing her baby as the Healer carried her from the room for testing.

"I'm sorry," Bill whispered to her as soon as the Healer departed.

"What for?" she asked wearily. "I'm not still mad about your comment about my seafood selection."

"I'm not apologizing for that, as any sane person would be nauseated by it. I'm sorry for doing this—" he gestured at the linens and her body, where were both caked in sweat and dried, rust colored blood—" to you."

"Don't be," she muttered, "zis is ze way giving birth is. It's nothing to be sorry about."

"But I hurt you," he protested feebly, "and I don't want to ever cause you pain."

"Zis is a temporary pain, you foolish man, and our joy resulting from 'aving Victoire will last far longer." As she established as much, the Healer's assessment pertaining to the afterbirth was proven accurate when the diverse liquids that had been sustaining and shielding the developing Victoire and the placenta poured out of Fleur, who winced again in pain. Watching this, because he felt that it would be cowardly to avert his eyes from a nightmare that his wife was currently living, Bill discovered yet another revolting aspect of labor to add to his mile long list. Once she had recovered from this, she went on in a tone that was far more steady than Bill would have expected anyone to muster at a moment like this, "Everything 'as a price. Zis is ze price of a new life, and I will gladly pay it once or twice more for you, before I decide zat enough is enough."

"I'm not confident that I can go through this again," he observed, as the Healer returned bearing the still crying Victoire in his arms.

"The baby is healthy, and has fine hearing and eyesight, and reflexes. She has blood type AB, and probably wants something to eat," explained the Healer, handing the baby over to Fleur, who opened her hospital gown, and settled Victoire against her breast.

Immediately, in an unconscious, instinctual reaction honed by millennia of evolution, Victoire stopped sobbing mid-wail, and found her mother's enlarged nipple easily by simply turning her head. As the baby's suckling sounds filled the room like background music, the Healer completed the birth certificate, and handed it to Bill and Fleur, and kept a copy each for the hospital and governmental records. When the birth certificate business was dealt with, the Healer arranged for the sheets on Fleur's bed to be changed, and once they had, he left, after instructing them to summon a nurse if anything went wrong, and that, if everything ran smoothly, Fleur would be ready to return home by this evening.

Not long after the Healer departed, Victoire concluded that she'd had enough to eat, and stopped nursing. Smiling despite her exhaustion, Fleur removed her daughter from her breast, rearranged her gown, and held out the arm bearing the baby to her husband. "Do you want to 'old 'er now zat she is done feeding?"

"No," Bill responded, his tone thicker than usual, "I am afraid that I am trembling so much that I might drop her on the ground by mistake."

"You'll 'ave to conquer your fear sometime, and now is as good a time as any," replied Fleur, and, surrendering, her spouse cradled his arms, and prepared to hold their new baby. When he took the child in his arms, Bill was astonished to discover that she did not feel any different in his hands than the twins, Ron, or Ginny had, even though when he glanced down at Victoire, he did feel a surge of pride course through him at the notion that he had created this small, pink being wrapped in the soft magenta blanket, a feeling that he had never had when he had cradled any of his newborn siblings, because this was the first time that he was holding his own child, not somebody else's. This little girl was all his and Fleur's responsibility, and she was their gift to the planet.

Rocking Victoire gently, so that she could not know that he was trembling, although she could not have been capable of enough complex thought to comprehend what it was, and what it signified, he was able to scrutinize his tiny daughter for the first time. Her small, somewhat fuzzy-looking tuft of hair that crowned her round head was honey-colored, a blend between his own vibrant red, and Fleur's crescent moon silver. Her fingers and hands were delicate looking, and he imagined that her feet appeared the same, although he could not be positive, owing to the blanket tucked about her. Her eyes were the bluebell sheen of Fleur's, but her nose was his, as strange as it was to glimpse it upon another person. The mouth was all Fleur's, and he did not look forward to a lifetime of refusing her pouts, as she grew up.

"She's beautiful," he remarked in the end, gazing at his wife, who was reclining against her pillows now.

"Yes," agreed Fleur quietly, "she's gorgeous."

"That's because she takes after you," he chuckled.

"What?" She jerked off her mound of pillows a tad in alarm at this analysis. "Our daughter definitely swam in your end of ze gene pool, for she resembles you far more zan she does me."

"Were any of the potions they gave you hallucinogens?" Bill eyed the potions that had been flowing into his wife during her labor dubiously. "Victoire has your eyes, your mouth, your more fragile features, and her hair is closer to your color than mine."

"Ze stubborn chin, and ze nose are undeniably yours," she returned, "and 'er 'air color is really much more similar to yours zan it is mine."

"When we introduce her to my parents and the rest of my family, everyone will tell you that she looks more like you than she does me, and that will prove the truth to you."

"And when we show 'er to Maman, Papa, and Gabrielle, zey will explain to you zat Victoire resembles you more zan me." Fleur crossed her arms over her chest despite her exhaustion.

"Sure, but my family is larger, so I'll receive more votes, and I'll win," he snickered at her as he stroked his daughter's thin coating of hair. Abruptly, he sobered, and inquired, "Your dad won't be too upset that it's a girl, right?"

"I doubt it, especially if we promise 'im zat we'll try again soon."

"Yes." He leaned forward, and kissed her, somehow still managing to maintain a firm grip upon Victoire. "We'll just have to try again soon."

"But not now." Scowling, she broke away from his kiss.

"Yeah, it's not a very romantic location," he grinned, and extended a finger to Victoire. She snatched it promptly in an uncompromising grip that indicated that whoever had invented the cliche "as easy as stealing candy from a baby" had never actually endeavored to do so, and he determined that she had inherited his clutch, but, recollecting how she had kicked in Fleur's womb, her mum's kick.

What a miraculous being was this baby, even if she was pink and still wet from the fluids that had sustained her for nine months! It was incredible how such a little thing could bring him so much joy. It really validated the aphorism that big things were contained in tiny packages. How could he have envisioned, for even a moment, that he could do anything but love and cherish this child, who had somehow amalgamated him and Fleur into a creature infinitely more beautiful than either of them, although she had obviously stolen more of her appearance from Fleur?

"Welcome to existence, sweetheart," he murmured, as her grip on his finger started to slacken.

"Welcome to ze 'eartbreak, ze 'unger, and ze love zat pulls us through," added Fleur in a whisper, as Victoire drifted off to sleep.

Now that Victoire had fallen asleep, Fleur finally allowed herself to descend into a slumber, and Bill was left alone with his snoozing child. Soon, even though he recognized that she could not possibly hear him, and wouldn't understand his words even on the off-chance that she could hear him in dreamland, he found himself addressing his baby daughter, "You were named after the Roman goddess of victory, and, what's more, you were born on May 2nd, the anniversary of our defeat of You-Know-Who. Well, you don't know who, do you? But I reckon we can keep it that way for awhile, huh? Anyway, that's a good day to be born on, because it's a day of promise, which means that you'll have a great life in the new world that your mum and I made for you with a little help form people like Harry Potter, whose going to be your uncle soon. That's right, the famous Boy Who Lived is going to marry your Aunt Ginny, and I'm going to let him without one us having to die. Maybe one day I'll even let you get married, but that's a long way off, and so I don't have worry about that now."

He glanced out the window at the dawn that was breaking all around them, shading the world in tinges of rose, tangerine, crimson, violet, and azure. "Maybe it's time I wrote to Mum and Dad—your Grandma and Grandpa, that means—and told them about your arrival, and I should probably tell the rest of my siblings, especially Percy and Ginny, who are going to be your godparents, and Louis, my best friend, that you've been born. Of course, I ought to tell your mummy's parents, too."

Victoire merely snoozed on, but he had not anticipated much in the way of a reply from a slumbering newborn. He only desired for her to hear his voice, perhaps, so that she would grow accustomed to it. After all, if she could hear Fleur's voice while she was in the womb, as Healers contended, why couldn't she detect his when she was safely ensconced in dreamland, and if it was true that she could hear Fleur's voice when she was in her mother's uterus, then he had a lot of catching up to do, since he did want to ensure that he was a good father. Maybe he couldn't do as wonderful a job as his own father had done, as few individuals could do so, but he would do the best he could, and he had faith enough in his abilities to believe that he could at least do an adequate job, if he tried hard enough, and he would do that.

"I should probably also write to Gringotts, so that they know not to expect me at work today," he finished, and, with that, he rested Victoire in the cradle the hospital had provided, and crossed over to the windowsill, where he could pen the aforementioned owls.

Within an hour, Bill had received a letter of congratulations from his mum and dad, and the liberal tear drops that had wet the parchment implied that it was his mother, not his father, that had written the response. His mother requested that he and Fleur drop by the Burrow the day after Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione left Hogwarts, so that everybody could see the baby.

Just as Bill completed composing a reply to Mrs. Weasley's note, Hermes sailed in through the open window, and, in a pompous gesture that mirrored his owner's behavior, stuck up his beak, and held an imperious claw out to Bill. His mouth twitching in amusement, Bill relieved the owl of its burden, and read Percy's letter of congratulations, which was littered with phrases and large words that only he would employ in casual correspondence. His grin broader than ever, Bill sent Hermes off with a reply not long afterwards. After Percy's note, Bill received no more owls, but he had not expected any more really, because Charlie lived in Romania, the Delacours in France, and Ron and Ginny attended school in the other end of the country, so they would not have even gotten his letter yet.

Not long after Hermes had departed bearing Bill's note to Percy, at around noon, their first visitor, Louis, arrived in the room, just as Fleur finished nursing Victoire, who had woken from her nap only a few minutes ago, screaming for milk. Looking a tad more cheerful than was typical with him, Louis walked across the room, and kissed Fleur on the cheek, mumbling something in French that must have amounted to a congratulations. Once he had greeted Fleur, he plopped down into the chair beside Bill's, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Congratulations on choosing a solid French name like Victoire Gabrielle, instead of an ugly English one," Louis commented. "So, may I hold her?"

"Of course," Fleur answered, situating Victoire carefully into his arms.

When Victoire was nestled into Louis' arms, Bill was shocked by the transfiguration that rocked the other man's features. At the best of times, Louis had a hard face, one that stated more clearly than words that the closest he trespassed to a smile was a smirk, and that he might have been familiar with the notion of amusement and laughter as obscure concepts, but had never actually encountered them in real life, and at the worst of times, Louis' face was a mask that was even more impenetrable than rock. Yet, when he held Victoire, his features softened, and something inside him must have loosened, some knot must have become unraveled, and that seemed to be a positive thing, judging by his face.

With a jolt, Bill realized that Louis must not have always been cynical, with a sharp mind and sharper tongue. He must once have been a little boy, a baby, who had been as innocent as young Victoire was. Of course, Bill had known that Louis had a childhood, but he had never really considered this, and, whenever Louis had let slip something about his past, he had always pictured the other man as he was now, but now that he glimpsed the tension flowing out of Louis for a moment in the pure, innocent gaze of a baby, he really understood what Louis might have looked like when he was a youth, and what he might have looked like if his face had not been hardened by his father. Years of hardening himself so that he could never he wounded again disappeared from Louis' face for a moment, making him seem almost fragile, even though Bill knew that he was anything but, as was demonstrated in his prowess as a Curse-Breaker. Still, if Louis could be ruined by his dad, then that meant that Bill had to be very careful indeed with Victoire.

"She is lovely," Louis pronounced, "although that is plainly thanks to the mother, rather than the father."

"See, Fleur, I already have one vote to support me when I say that Victoire looks more like you than she does me." Bill was unfazed by the insult.

However, Louis ignored him, and went on, focusing on Victoire, who was eyeing him with the interest babies display toward strangers, "When you get old enough to talk, you can call me Uncle Louis, as long as you keep in mind that I am related on your mother's side, not your father's side."

" 'Uncle Louis'?" Bill pounced upon this. "You're old age must be making you soft, because the Louis I know would never take such a title for himself. I think you'd better be careful, or you'll melt like chocolate when you go back out into the sun."

"I'm allowed to be a little soft, since this baby is the nearest I will come to having a grandchild," Louis educated him haughtily.

"You could have married and had children of your own," Bill pointed out, as Louis' face hardened once again when he removed his eyes from Victoire.

"I would have been a horrible father," snorted Louis, as he handed Victoire back to her mother with more tenderness than Bill would have expected such a man to have in him, "just like my own was. That sort of thing tends to run in families. You know, if you push a child around, he'll push his child around, and the only way to stop it is to not reproduce. Besides, I was able to adopt you as a sort of son once you were past your annoying adolescent years, meaning that I got basically all the joys of being a parent without most of the drawbacks, which your martyred father unknowingly endured for me. Hmm, maybe one day I should send him a box of my truffles as payment."

"Don't bother," Bill responded swiftly, eager to wipe the uncomfortable look that accompanied any of Louis' expressions of emotion off his friend's face, "as I was planning on sending Mum and Dad a Knut, because everything I am I owe to my parents, and I figure that ought to square the old account."

"Fair enough," conceded Louis, as he rose, and headed for the door, "well, I'd better be getting back to work before the goblins start missing me, or, rather, to be more precise, begin missing the work I do."


	81. Chapter 81

Fatherhood

On Victoire's third Saturday of her life outside the womb, Bill and Fleur engaged in a battle to dress her in pretty clothing to see her grandmere and grandpere. For the first time, Bill really comprehended how a potent wizard like You-Know-Who could be defeated by a little baby, such as Harry Potter, because, for child that hadn't even been alive for a month, Victoire was putting up an incredible fight. It seemed that Victoire did not want her mother to clothe her in the lemon colored sundress Fleur had bought for her, since she flailed her slender arms about on their bed, moaning.

"Can't you do something to 'elp me, instead of sitting zere like an idiot?" Fleur hissed at her husband in exasperation, after Victoire's thrusting arms foiled her attempts at slipping the shoulder straps properly onto the baby.

"I can try," smiled Bill, placing the comb he had been using on his hair on the nightstand, and snatching up a rattle, which was one of Victoire's favorite toys, to replace it. When he waved the rattle above her head, Victoire ceased whimpering, and began to coo. However, before he could congratulate himself on successfully pacifying her, Victoire's arms commenced flapping again, as she desperately sought to grab the toy that was just out of her reach, taunting her.

"Zat is not 'elping," Fleur informed him irritably, as Victoire's whipping arms again prevented her from getting the straps into position.

"Yeah, I noticed that. Let me try something else," replied Bill. Before his wife could respond, he lowered the rattle, so that his daughter's next undertaking to snatch it would be rewarded. A few seconds after the toy had been lowered, Victoire grabbed it, crooned in triumph, popped it into her mouth, and started sucking on it, shutting her eyes tranquilly as she did when Fleur was nursing her. "That worked," he added by way of an evaluation, his tone self-satisfied.

"As long as ze paint on ze rattle isn't toxic," mumbled his spouse, obviously vexed with his smugness, as she finally got the shoulder straps arranged where she wanted them. "Now, all zat is left to do in dressing her is putting on zose lovely baby sandals I purchased for her, and, since you seem to believe zat you are so much better at zis zan me, you can do zat job."

Glancing down at the miniscule white sandals Fleur had bought for their child, Bill arched his eyebrows at her. "Why on earth did you buy these? During their first year on the planet, human children grow so much that if they continued to grow at that rate, by the time they were five they would be the size of a baby elephant, so she won't fit these for more than a week, or possibly two, if luck is with us for once."

"I bought them because zey are simply adorable, and white can match just about any color," she retorted, as Bill scooped the shoes off the bed, and tried to attach the right sandal to the appropriate foot, but was blocked in this endeavor by Victoire's kicking, because she clearly did not approve of the notion of wearing the shoes anymore than she did the idea of donning the dress. As Bill fought the impulse to curse, knowing that he wasn't supposed to do that around a baby, even if she wouldn't understand what the words meant, Fleur went on, "Anyway, ze fact zat our daughter is growing doesn't mean zat we shouldn't by 'er stuff. After all, we don't use ze fact zat she is growing every day as an excuse not to buy 'er clothing."

"But she's not walking yet, so she doesn't need shoes," he riposted, as he failed to put on the right sandal for the second time in a row, because Victoire's little feet were dancing about quite nimbly, evading him, "and, even if she was, we shouldn't buy her white ones, because she would dirty them up. Little children like nothing more than to play around in mud puddles."

"Maybe boys do, but girls are much too civilized for such pastimes as zat." Fleur stuck up her nose haughtily. "By ze way, I can 'elp you, if your ego will permit it."

"Any assistance you can offer would be appreciated," he conceded, as he managed to wrap the sandal around Victoire's foot, something that sent a tinge of triumph coursing through him that was quickly drowned in a sea of frustration when the girl kicked it off, so that it narrowly missed smacking his forehead, before he could buckle it shut.

"I surmised as much," observed Fleur. Then, her demeanor became much more pleasant, as she started singing in her throaty voice what was evidently a French lullaby. Although she probably could not understand the words anymore than he did, Victoire was soothed by the tone of the song, and quieted down, her legs stilling after a few seconds. Taking advantage of her motionlessness, Bill slipped on the sandals and buckled them as rapidly as he could, before his daughter could realize what had occurred, winking at his wife.

Once Victoire was finally prepared to visit her maternal grandparents in style, Fleur picked her up, and carried her downstairs in her favorite mauve baby blanket, her stuffed bunny in her fist, and outside into the garden, where they Disapparated. Within seconds, they had reappeared in front of the Delacours' garden gate. Since, Fleur's hands were full, Bill opened the gate to admit them, and bowed her inside.

As they stepped down the brick pathway that pierced through the neat French garden, Gabrielle darted toward them, her streaming silver hair that jetted out behind her as she ran glowing in the spring sun, screaming, "Oh, Fleur, you've come at last! I was just telling Maman and Papa zat I couldn't stand to wait a moment longer for you to arrive, but zey told me zat I had to be patient. I 'ate being patient—" She broke of abruptly when she caught sight of the bundle in her elder sister's arms, and then she resumed, eyes shining with excitement—"Is zat ze baby?"

Before Fleur could answer, Madame Delacour had glided down the path to greet them with a beaming Monsieur Delacour bouncing along in her wake, as usual. "Yes, zat is ze baby, Gabrielle, but you must hush. Shouting distresses babies, and you don't want to make your new niece cry, do you?" Madame Delacour cut in when she joined them.

"No, I don't want to make ze baby cry," agreed Gabrielle, her eyes widening. Looking at her sibling, she apologized, "Sorry. I didn't know zat I wasn't supposed to do zat, and I was so excited."

"Well, it is better to be too excited at ze prospect of a new life zan to not feel anything at all," declared Monsieur Delacour, patting his younger daughter affectionately on the head, despite the fact that she was almost as tall as he was now.

"It is magnificent to see you both again." Madame Delacour kissed both of Fleur's cheeks, and then did the same to her son-in-law. "Do come sit on ze patio with Luc, Gabrielle, and I. We 'ave prepared some brie cheese and crackers, mini quiches, and eclairs, and 'ave juice and champagne to drink."

While everyone followed her lead back to the stone patio, Madame Delacour glanced apologetically over her shoulder at Bill. "British people are rumored to love zeir tea, I know, but it is so 'ot, zat it really didn't seem practical. I 'ope you don't mind terribly."

"Don't worry," Bill grinned at her, as they reached the patio, and everyone settled themselves in the cushioned chairs around the glass table with an umbrella sticking out of its center, which was obviously intended to prevent them from being burned by the sun, "I prefer champagne, anyhow."

"Well, zis is Victoire Gabrielle, everybody," Fleur announced, as she approached her father, and placed the baby in his arms. "I 'ope zat you aren't too upset zat she is a girl, Papa. Bill and I will keep on trying, and you will 'ave your grandson yet, I promise."

"Who could possibly be upset when zey 'ave such a beautiful grandchild?" Monsieur Delacour bent over to blow on Victoire's belly, and she cooed in amusement, flailing her hands and feet about with merry abandon. Smiling down at her, he murmured, his manner almost reverent, "She 'as your eyes, Fleur."

"And your lips," contributed Madame Delacour, who had settled herself in the seat beside her spouse, and who had leaned over to examine her granddaughter, as well.

"See, Fleur," smirked Bill, "even your own family is convinced that Victoire resembles you far more than she does me."

Before Fleur could counter this, Gabrielle interjected, "May I please 'old Victoire? I promise zat I will be very careful, and zat I won't drop 'er on ze patio, or anything like zat."

After eyeing Fleur and Bill, who nodded their assent, inquiringly, Monsieur Delacour carried the infant over to his younger daughter, and demonstrated the proper manner in which to hold the baby. As he sipped his champagne, Bill could not contain a smile while he watched Gabrielle finger-comb the short, soft crown of hair on her niece's head, as she cradled her in her arms.

"I wish I 'ad been made ze godmother," sighed Gabrielle when she had finished holding Victoire, and handed her to Madame Delacour.

"If you are mature enough, you can be godmother for our next child," Fleur educated her, between bites of cheese and cracker. Turning to her mother, she asked, "Don't you see Victoire's resemblance to 'er father?"

"Well, she does 'ave 'is chin, and 'is nose," answered Madame Delacour, "but she still reminds me of you 'as a baby more zan anything, because of ze way she is behaving, and everything."

"All babies kick and throw zeir arms about," Fleur dismissed this. With that, she focused upon her husband. "When we visit the Burrow in mid-June, I will ask your mother and father whether you flailed about like zat when you were an infant, and, if zey say yes, zat means that 'er manner is no more like yours zan it is mine, and, if your family is as much of a batch of traitors as mine is, zey will say zat Victoire looks more like you zan she does me."

"They won't if I bribe them," Bill teased her, nibbling on an eclair.

"You should 'ave worked at your Ministry of Magic." Fleur rolled her eyes at him.

"If I had, we would not have met," he pointed out, "and we wouldn't even be having this debate."

"And Victoire would not 'ave been born, at all," she put in, as her mother returned Victoire to her.

Not long after that, Victoire started wailing, whipping her fists and arms about in her temper, and Fleur determined that it was time for her nap, and that the three of them had better head home to Shell Cottage now. After bidding farewell to Gabrielle, Madame and Monsieur Delacour, who all saw them to the gate, Fleur and Bill Disapparated with Victoire, still clutching her blanket and bunny, in her mum's arms.

On the fourteenth of June, the day after Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Harry returned from Hogwarts, Bill and Fleur once again struggled to dress Victoire in a nice outfit in order to meet her paternal grandparents, and godparents. When they had finally managed to slip her into a rainbow colored sundress and sandals, despite her pumping hands and feet, the three of them Disapparated, this time with Bill bearing Victoire and her blanket and stuffed bunny, to just outside the Burrow.

When they arrived outside the Burrow, they saw that everyone was assembled upon two massive picnic blankets on the lawn, munching upon melons and strawberries, gulping down wine or pumpkin juice, and ignoring the gnomes as they scampered about playing their games of tag. As he and Fleur neared the blanket on which Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were planning their dual wedding ceremony, Bill could distinctly hear his sister asserting, "No, Hermione, we can't have any pink at the wedding, because it clashes horribly with Weasley hair."

"And it calls to mind the nauseating office of Dolores Umbridge," affirmed Harry, chewing on his watermelon slice, "and that's not the sort of thing I wish to be reminded of at my wedding."

"I don't envy zem," Fleur whispered in her husband's ear, as they passed the busy foursome, "as it was difficult enough organizing a wedding with only ze concerns and desires of ze two of us to contend with. I can't imagine having to deal with ze wishes and concerns of another couple."

As she opened her mouth to either give in, or argue, Hermione caught sight of Bill and Fleur passing, and squealed, "Oh, you've brought the baby!"

"You were just going to walk by me, and not show me the baby when I am the godmother?" Ginny demanded, glowering at her older brother, as he and his wife crossed over to sit beside the two young couples, who had just graduated from Hogwarts.

"I thought you were preoccupied with organizing your wedding, lioness," Bill responded, grinning, as he rested Victoire in her outstretched hands, "and I figured that you would be less busy later on. After all, you can only plan a wedding before your brain starts to get fed up with the task, and you start agreeing to things like frog green tablecloths."

However, Ginny paid this statement no mind, because she was busy examining her goddaughter, and when she did speak, she whispered, "Merlin, she's beautiful, even if she doesn't have the fiery Weasley hair."

"Zat obviously means zat she thinks zat ze baby looks more like you, zan me," Fleur remarked.

"No, it means that she doesn't think that the baby looks like me very much, but she still believes Victoire to be beautiful although this is the case," argued Bill.

"You're both incorrect," Ginny interrupted, "because all I was saying was that she doesn't have red hair, but nor does she have silver hair. Actually, her hair is a combination of the two colors, and I think that it is lovely, just like the rest of her is." Then, she gazed down at the baby again, whose cerulean eyes were fixated on her aunt, and swooped down to kiss her forehead. "Hey, Vic—that's what I'm going to call you, because Victoire is such a mouthful, isn't it? Believe me, I can relate to having a mouthful of a name that is longer than you are, because my parents, your Grandma and Grandpa, gave me the name Ginerva, and so I forced everyone to call me Ginny, instead. So, anyway, Vic, I'm going to be your godmother, and I got you a new toy." Here, she withdrew a small indigo ring made of a fleshy material that appeared easy to suck and chew upon. "Sorry it isn't better, but I was going to pool my money with your Uncle Percy, whose your godfather, but he wanted to purchase you a book, for heaven's sake, so I decided against it, but I hope you like it, anyhow."

Apparently, Victoire, or Vic, as Ginny had christened her, did approve of the present, for she popped it into her mouth, and sucked on it with the single-minded dedication of a baby. Once she had given the infant her gift, Ginny handed Victoire over to Hermione, who marveled over the baby's eyes and nose for a minute or two, before handing Victoire over to Ron, who looked somewhat off-put by this, and hastened to offer the baby to Harry.

Like his best friend, Harry also seemed somewhat discomfited at the suggestion of holding Victoire, because he inquired, glancing anxiously at Bill and Fleur, "It's like holding Teddy, right?"

"Except that she's a girl, yeah." Bill nodded. "You have to be more careful with girls."

"Ignore 'im, 'Arry. Zat's 'is idea of a joke." Fleur glared at her husband. "It's just like 'olding Teddy, and you 'ave done zat plenty of times."

After that, Harry relieved Ron of Victoire, and held her for a moment or two, smiling down at her, and, then, he handed her back over to Bill. Then, Bill, Fleur, and Victoire stepped over to join Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Percy, and George upon the second picnic blanket.

"Oh, she's absolutely adorable!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, snatching Victoire out of her son's hands, and kissing the baby's hair, forehead, and cheeks several times each. Tears glistened in her eyes, as she pulled away from her grandchild. "I'm a grandmother, holding my very first granddaughter. Arthur, I can't believe. It seems like only yesterday when I was clutching Bill like this…"

"May I hold my grandchild, Molly?" her husband intervened before she could embarrass herself, or Bill further. When a wet-eyed Mrs. Weasley, handed him Victoire, he beamed down at her, and noted, "Bill, she has your stubborn chin, did you know that?"

"So, I've heard," Bill muttered, "but I definitely think that she looks much more like her mum than me. Don't you agree?"

"Zat's cheating," stated Fleur quickly, "because it phrases ze question in such a way zat one feels obliged to agree unless one wants to be disagreeable."

However, Mr. Weasley did not seem to hear any of this, because he rambled on, "And she's got your nose, too, Bill, but her hair is a mixture of red and silver, and her eyes are her mother's, so there you go."

"Well, zat means zat your papa supports my belief zat Victoire resembles you more zan me," concluded Fleur, and Bill glared at both her and his father, before facing his mum.

"Don't you think that Victoire looks remarkably like Fleur?" he inquired, hoping for an affirmative.

"Well, really, dear, I don't know, because I don't know what Fleur looked like as a child, but Victoire reminds me of you," she replied, and Bill sighed.

As Mr. Weasley gave the baby that was the object of so much contention over to Percy, Bill pressed, "What do you think, Perce? Does she look more like her mother, or I?"

"She seems to be about a fifty-fifty split," Percy responded.

"Are you sure that you don't mean to pursue a career in diplomacy?" Bill raised an eyebrow.

"After my stint in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, I can safely respond with a negative on that count." Percy shook his head, and then his voice changed as he addressed the child he was cradling in his arms. "Hello, Victoire. Once you can talk, you can call me Uncle Percy. I'm your godfather, and I've got you a present here." Like Ginny, he paused at this point to remove a pocket-sized book from his cloak, and he set it on the bare portion of the blanket near the overgrown grass. "Now, you can visit with Uncle George for awhile."

With that, he offered Victoire to George, who immediately commenced contorting his face into grotesque configurations that prompted his niece to coo, and flounce her arms about in excitement. While George entertained Victoire, Percy explained to Bill and Fleur, "It is a pop-up book that is quite transportable. When you wish to travel with it, you just close it, and it will instantly transform itself into this pocket-sized, moveable book that you see before you. However, when Victoire wants to look at it, all she has to do is open it up, and then it will expand to about a foot in length, and the pop-ups will come up and down as she flips through the pages. For now, she should enjoy the pop-ups, but when she is more mature, she will enjoy reading the story, so it is a book that will continue to fit her, as she develops. Therefore, whatever Ginny claims on the contrary, I deem it a very serviceable and appropriate gift," he finished with a definite note of smugness in his tone.

"It's a very clever present." Bill nodded, impressed.

"And it is very practical," added his wife.

When George handed Victoire to her, Fleur rested her upon the clear part of the blanket, and opened up the book. Vicoire's eyes widened at least as much as the book when she saw it expand, and for a moment, she seemed confused about whether the cutouts were real or not, and reached a tentative finger out to touch a cutout. The feel of the cardboard convinced her that it was not real, and she removed her finger, put it in her mouth, and began to stare at the pop-ups with her unblinking baby eyes, struggling to absorb all the stimulation.

"That means she approves of it," chuckled Bill.

"I'm glad she does," Percy said. "I got it at a Muggle bookshop, actually."

"A Muggle bookshop?" interjected Mr. Weasley, quivering with enthusiasm.

"Yes, I got it at a large one in London, Dad." Percy bobbed his head in confirmation. "I would recommend going there, incidentally, because they do have a broader selection of reading materials ―I really do enjoy some of the things they term as 'classics'― than Flourish and Blotts does, although I would still advise purchasing any tomes pertaining to magical theory or practice there, because the Muggle occult section is filled with nonsense, and that's where they put the books on their conception of magic. If you do go, though, you'll have to remember to don Muggle attire, as Muggles aren't accustomed to our robes, and if you go in our typical clothing, you'll be forced to endure stares, pointing fingers, and muttered speculations about why in the world you are wearing a costume when it's not Halloween."

"Do you suppose they might have books explaining how blenders, pelephones, batteries, plugs―or it might be pugs― and pelevisions work?" demanded a breathless Mr. Weasley. "And do you think they might have a book about how airplanes stay up in the air?"

"You might want to check the science, technology, and how-to manual sections," Percy educated him. "Those are probably where you would find such books, and if you still need help, they have clerks in the Muggle bookshops, just like we have them in our stores, that can aid you in finding what you need. They are especially helpful if you have a particular title in mind, although they do have a peculiar tendency to babble on about how you can purchase the books by mail on something called the Internet with credit cards if you already know what you want to buy, so you don't have to go to the store at all, but I never have any notion what they are yattering on about, so I just nod politely, and I tell them I love a healthy walk. Oh, and, if you plan on buying anything, be sure to change your money to Muggle cash at Gringotts beforehand, because, for some reason, they don't accept Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons."

"And they sell books like that there?" Mr. Weasley gestured at the book that still captivated Victoire.

"Well, not exactly," Percy admitted. "That is, they sell pop-up books that are about a foot in length, but the books don't shrink to a portable size. You need to place a Selective Shrinking Charm upon them, if you want to have it change sizes. Sometimes, I do that, so that whatever leisure book I am currently reading is more portable, and so I can carry it everywhere I go with ease, ensuring that I am never bored. Don't fret, though, Mother, I checked it out, and it is perfectly legal, as long as I spell it so that it won't perform magic in front of Muggles."

"I shall have to visit a Muggle bookshop soon, and discover what amazing facts I can learn about their culture there," declared a flushed Mr. Weasley. "I can't understand why I never thought of this before now!"

"Probably because you haven't run out of items to read at Flourish and Blotts, as I have," Percy suggested, a somewhat wry quality to his voice.

"No, probably because I'm not as intelligent as you are."

"You are too kind, Dad, but I assure you I am not any smarter than a majority of the general population, as my IQ is about 115, which makes me within one standard deviation of IQ scores, according to a Muggle book and test on intelligence that I purchased." Percy blushed to the roots of his flaming hair, and ducked his head, as he reached out hand to grab a piece of cantaloupe from the fruit dish in the center of the blanket, only to discover that it was empty. "We need more fruit," he stated the obvious.

"That's because I gorged down the last one while you were chattering on to Dad about the very dull topic of Muggle bookstores, which I found about as fascinating as watching a scab form," observed George, rolling his eyes.

Before Percy could respond, Mr. Weasley picked up the platter, and announced, "Excuse me, everyone. I'll go into the kitchen, then, and cut up some more fruit for us all, if nobody minds."

"I'll come with you." Bill shoved himself to his feet, sensing an opportunity to ask the question that had been on his mind for a little over a month now, and, together, they walked across the lawn, and into the kitchen of the Burrow.

As Mr. Weasley started slicing a honeydew, and he cut and cored an apple himself, Bill asked, "May I talk to you for a moment, Dad?"

"You know that you can always talk to me, so, by now, that question is more of a formality than anything."

Trying to think about how best to voice what he wanted to say, Bill invested rather more time and effort into arranging the apple pieces upon the plate than such an endeavor strictly demanded. Finally, he came out with, "Louis' dad beat him. Did you know that?"

"Yes." His father's tone was heavy. "Something he said at your wedding made me assume that was the case. It always is tragic when something like that happens, because it hurts the child more than just physically."

"It destroys the child," Bill established fiercely, almost mashing the pear he was cutting up in his anger. "It ruined something inside Lou. I saw that when he held Victoire for the first time, and I couldn't believe it took me that long to get it, or to realize what a tremendous responsibility it is to be a parent, because you have your child's life in your hands in more ways than one, and if you mess up they'll never be the same afterwards, and they'll never reach their full potential, and it will all be your fault."

"Ah, we've reached the crux of the matter." Mr. Weasley completed slicing the honeydew, and began to arrange it around the apple Bill had placed in the heart of the dish. "You're afraid that you'll mess up."

"I'm not afraid, because I've never been scared of anything in my life, and I don't have any intention of starting this late in the game," Bill blustered, finishing with the pear, and arraying it on the platter. I'm just, erm, aware of the fact that I could mess up spectacularly, and not even know that I was doing it, or worse still, harboring under the delusion that I'm doing a marvelous job. That's actually pretty easy to do, because I've done it on quizzes and tests."

"It's hard to mess up with raising a child," his father reassured him, cutting up some watermelon. "To create someone like your friend Louis, it takes years of making the same mistakes, and I think you would notice that if a child does not respond to a particular disciplinary approach, it probably would be beneficial to devise a new one."

"How did you know what you were doing with me and the others?"

"I didn't know anything," chortled Mr. Weasley. "You were my first child, remember, and when they handed you to me in the hospital, I was quite convinced that I was going to make a total mess of this whole parenting thing, but then, you gave me a smile― or what I think was a smile, although Molly insists that it was only a twitch of the lips― and I figured that you trusted me and loved me, and knew as little about being a son as a dad about being a father, so we could just fly by the seat of our pants, and just figure out what we're supposed to do together."

"And for all these years I was driving myself up the wall trying to discover a method to your madness," Bill laughed at this confession, as he helped his dad arrange the watermelon on the plate. Sobering, he commented, "I'm not sure I like the idea of my being your guinea pig. It's not a very flattering role to be cast in, and it's not fair that the others had a dad that knew how to do the job, and I didn't."

"Don't feel bad," the other informed him, "because I had to start back at square one again for every child."

"You did?" Bill frowned in consternation, scooping up the fruit dish.

"Of course, because every child is unique, and has to be treated as such." Amusement entered his dad's tone. "After all, it might have been a punishment for Charlie to have his broom taken away, but threatening Percy with the same thing would not be very effective, you see."

"Yeah, Perce would probably blink, and ask, 'I have a broom?'" Bill laughed, and, then realized that this might not have been tactful, because they were only a little more than a yard away from the blanket where Percy was sitting.

When they returned to the assembly on the second blanket, Percy remarked, "I heard my name. May I ask what is so amusing about me?"

"The fact that you wouldn't think it was a punishment to have your broomstick taken away as a boy," Mr. Weasley answered. "Bill and I have the most random conversations imaginable."

Percy gawked at his father. "I had a broom?"

"That's almost verbatim what I imagined you would say if you had been threatened with that as a punishment," smirked his older brother. "The only difference is the tense of the verb. I'm so brilliant at reading people, and my senses tell me that if you want to intimidate Percy you have to tell him that you'll take his books away if he's naughty."

"That wouldn't do any good," Percy retorted, "as I would have them memorized."

"You memorized your books?" Bill stared at his younger sibling incredulously.

"No." Percy's lips quirked into something that might, on somebody less serious, been termed as a grin. "But I had you believing it, didn't I? That would have protected my precious literature."

"I never knew you were so conniving," whistled George, as he bit into a slab of cantaloupe.

"Yeah, don't show my daughter any of your tricks," Bill warned, "because I'll have enough problems with her once she realizes that guys are cute and don't have cooties."

"I have every intention of being a good godfather." Percy's eyes gleamed. "By the way, that is meant to be an ambiguous response."


	82. Chapter 82

Author's Note: This is the second to last chapter of this story, but, on the off-chance that you like my writing, and aren't sick of it yet, I have just started another similar tale about our favorite werewolf, Remus Lupin. It is entitled _In the Shadow of the Full Moon_, and you can find it by clicking on my profile page. (Or you can scroll through a hundred other stories to find it, or you can type the title into the search box.) I just posted Chapter One, so you haven't missed much.

Sorry this chapter is so very, very short, but it means that the story is drawing to a close. However, I did not want to combine this chapter with the next, as you will understand once you see how I make this story come full circle. If you don't have a guess of how I'm going to do it, I won't tell you, and spoil the moment where Dumbledore comes back to life, and blows up Hogwarts. (That's a joke.)

Double Wedding

On the sixteenth of July, the day that Ron and Hermione, and Ginny and Harry were going to be married, Bill and Fleur battled to dress Victoire in a rose colored silk gown with matching shoes that the girl, if her thrashing feet and arms were any indicator, obviously did not wish to wear. Once Victoire had finally lost the dress struggle, and was left sucking the toy ring Ginny had bought her, Bill and Fleur focused on preparing themselves for the double wedding. As Bill slipped into his best dress robes, Fleur put on a simple sunflower colored gown, which was clearly her way of trying to dim her beauty, so that there would be less probability of her outshining either of the brides. However, in her husband's opinion, it only served to enhance her glowing skin, and silver hair, though he decided against establishing as much. Instead, he helped her tie a golden necklace around her throat, and then scooped up Victoire, who was still suckling away at the ring, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

"Come on, Vic," he remarked, as he picked her up off the master bed, employing Ginny's nickname for her, as he discovered himself doing more and more often lately, even if Fleur persisted in calling their daughter "Victoire." "We're going to go to Aunt Ginny's—she's your godmother, too, remember, and she got you that lovely toy that you are currently trying to destroy with all that sucking—and your Uncle Ron's wedding ceremonies. Ron's marrying Hermione Granger, and Ginny's marrying Harry Potter. Now, what other toy do you want to bring with you?"

Unsurprisingly, Victoire didn't reply. In fact, she just stared at him with her wide blue eyes, as she typically did whenever anyone spoke to her at great length. "Your bunny rabbit it is, then," he concluded, bending over to snatch it out of her crib, and offer it to her. As Victoire clutched the bunny's right ear in her fist, Bill noticed that his wife appeared somewhat uneasy.

"What's troubling you?" he inquired, as they exited the room, and began to make their way downstairs.

"Oh, it's just zat I'm afraid zat zey won't care for zeir wedding presents," she replied, rubbing her hands together anxiously.

"Well, then, they should have given us more notice. After all, we only found out that they were going to be wed in December." Bill shrugged.

"No advanced notice would be enough for you, if your sister is ze bride," noted Fleur, a wry twist to her lips.

Ignoring this, he went on, "Anyway, they can be grateful for their magical smoothie makers, because it is loads better than getting the Nedijii claw and some other old gift that we didn't like from our wedding."

"It's times like these when I don't know why in ze world zat I married you," she snorted, as they left the house, and entered the garden.

"Well, after good old Fenrir ate about half of my face, you felt obligated to do so, because you didn't want to prove my mum's initial assessment of a shallow, foolish young woman correct," Bill managed to respond before they both Disapparated.

Seconds later, the three of them materialized at the Burrow, where a marquee had been erected to hold the two nuptials. As they approached it, they realized that Andromeda Tonks was making her way toward the marquee on their left with little Teddy Lupin toddling along, and clutching his maternal grandmother's hand tightly with his right hand, while his left maintained a firm grip upon a toy dragon that Charlie would have approved of. Smiling, Bill altered their course slightly, so that they could join the widow and her grandson.

After greeting Andromeda, Bill shifted his hold on Victoire, so that he could squat down beside Teddy, the son of Tonks and Remus, but he wouldn't think about them now, because that would ruin the happiness of this sunny summer day, and that would not be what Tonks or Remus wanted. Both of them would have wished for those who were still alive to go on living, not just physically, but emotionally, and intellectually.

"Hi, Teddy," he commented, as a knife pierced his chest when he spotted that, today, at least, Teddy's eyes were the same hazelnut sheen as Remus' had been. "That's a nice dragon that you've got there. You should show it to Charlie when you see him. He came home for the wedding."

"It called Harry," Teddy educated him proudly, holding the stuffed beast aloft in the air like Moses had the stone tablets bearing the Ten Commandments.

"Harry?" chuckled Bill. "After your godfather?"

"Harry beat dragon once," Teddy informed him somberly, the brown eyes that so resembled his father's expanding to emphasize his seriousness. "Told me so when he visited me."

"Yeah, he outsmarted a Hungarian Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament." Bill nodded. "I wasn't there, but Charlie wrote to me about it. Well, we'd better get inside quickly, or all the good seats will be taken."

Following his suggestion, they all walked the few remaining yards into the marquee, and settled themselves in a row of chairs in the middle of the congregation that had not yet been taken. Fortunately, because Victoire did not have very extensive reserves of patience, and Bill doubted that Teddy did, either, at his young age, they did not have to wait terribly long for the ceremony too commence, for they had only been sitting down for five minutes or so when Harry and Ron, who would be serving as each other's best men, emerged from the dressing room on the right side of the marquee, and went to stand on the front platform with the waiting priest. Barely a moment after Harry and Ron had arranged themselves at the front of the marquee in their fancy black and white dress robes with crimson roses affixed to their chests, when Bill's breath caught as four figures began to make their slow procession down the center aisle of the marquee.

There was Ginny, a vision in white, the pristine colorlessness of the gown drawing out the flush in her cheeks, adding vividness to her already vibrant waist-length hair, and emphasizing the sparkle in her doe eyes. God, his little sister was gorgeous, and even Potter really didn't deserve her. Still, that was a perilous lane to be spacing down at her wedding, because when the preacher asked if anyone had any objections to the marriage, it wasn't really a question, and nobody had ever taken advantage of the opportunity to prevent a wedding ceremony from going forward in all of human history, and, somehow, Bill didn't want to go down in history as the crazy brother who had interrupted his sister's marriage ceremony. Anyway, such an interjection wouldn't even work, because Ginny was really going to marry P—Harry. The boy was going to be family, after all, so Bill would just have to call him by name, especially since he had promised Ginny that he would do so.

Thinking that it would be best to redirect his attention before he strangled someone that wasn't Harry by accident, Bill looked to the left of Ginny, and spotted his dad escorting her down the aisle, beaming, as though he wasn't about to lose his only daughter. Exasperated, Bill looked at Hermione, who, for once, seemed almost attractive, with her brown hair all up in a fancy bun, except for a handful of strands on either side of her face, which she had left to curl in ringlets by her cheeks and ears. Hermione, too, was being escorted up the aisle by a man with hair the same hue as Hermione's, whom Bill assumed was her father.

As the four of them finally arrived at the alter, Mr. Weasley, his broad smile still etched on his features, handed his child over to Harry, as Mr. Granger gave a beaming Hermione to Ron. When the fathers of the brides had settled themselves into the two seats reserved for them in the front row beside their wives, who were already sobbing, despite the fact that the wedding had hardly begun.

Now that everyone was positioned where they ought to be, the priest started to read his homily about the importance of self-sacrifice and commitment in a loving and successful, lifelong marriage. Although he knew that he really should pay attention, since the words probably could have contained valuable advice for any married couple, Bill found that his mind wandered from the sermon, because he had always preferred to discover his own answers about religious and spiritual matters, and he figured that it probably wasn't the most sensible notion on the planet to take the advice of a man who was sworn to celibacy on marriage matters. After all, what could he know about it, and anything he did know, he wasn't supposed to know, for Christ's sake. Anyway, instead of listening to the priest, he watched as his daughter, still sucking on her ring toy, waved her rabbit around, crooning softly.

Maybe it was impolite and inconsiderate of the other guests to have her continue to be here, but Bill determined that the odds of getting a three-month-old infant to be entirely quiet for about an hour were about as good as reaching lightspeed by flapping one's arms, and, anyway, the noise of the baby's cooing was no doubt inaudible to most of the occupants of the marquee, because at least half of them were crying, so they wouldn't hear much of anything. Even those who weren't crying themselves would be hard pressed to discern Victoire's crooning over the thunderous wails that were emerging from Hagrid's quivering frame, as he sobbed into his handkerchief, which was approximately the size of a Muggle circus tent.

Soon, however, Victoire got bored of playing with her stuffed bunny, and eyed Teddy's toy dragon with an almost wistful expression. Then, she snatched the dragon from Teddy with an astounding display of force for someone her age. As Teddy opened his mouth to speak, Bill pulled the dragon out of his child's hand just before she could pop it into her mouth, and begin to suck on its snout, and returned it to Teddy.

When the dragon was taken away from her, Victoire began to cry, right in the middle of the vows the priest was reading to Ginny. Complaining to himself that Victoire had the worst timing in the world for this sort of thing, because a decent amount of the assembly had turned to stare at them, Bill carried her out of the marquee as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. It took several minutes to pacify Victoire, but eventually she did settle down, probably because the stuffed animal had been out of her sight long enough to sail out of her mind. Only when his baby had quieted down, suckling peacefully away at her ring toy, did Bill realize that Victoire did, in fact, actually have the best timing in the world for her crying extravaganza, because she had unwittingly provided him with an excuse not to witness Potter kissing his sister.

"Did I ever mention how much I love you, sweetie?" he bent to kiss Victoire's forehead, as the sounds of music flowing out of the marquee announced that it was safe for him to return there, because the reception had begun, and, now, all he had to do was avoid looking at Ginny dancing with her new husband. After all, he did not have to give the newly-weds their presents, because Fleur was carrying them, since his hands were busy with Victoire.

Unfortunately, Fleur did not seem to agree with this mentality, because she had been waiting near the entrance of the marquee for him to return, and when he entered, she grabbed his elbow, and steered him over to the corner where Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry were accepting presents and congratulations from well-wishers.

"How about I go and grab you some delicious food from the buffet?" he proposed to Fleur, as they joined the queue of guests, because the last thing on earth he wanted to do was wait on a lengthy line to congratulate Harry on stealing his sister, although it might wound Ginny, if he didn't congratulate her. Oh, well, maybe he could send her a card later...

Fleur rolled her eyes, and Bill was forced to remain in the queue, as it slowly edged forward, as guests disappeared into the rest of the party after wishing the couples well, and giving their gifts. Finally, Bill, his spouse, and his child found themselves face to face with Ron and Hermione, and Ginny and Harry.

Once Fleur had kissed each of the pair of brides and grooms on the cheek, and had handed their presents to both of the couples, Bill focused his attention on Ron and Hermione, deciding that it would be the easier batch of newly-weds to deal with.

"Congratulations, and welcome to the family. I hope you are a fan of Celestina Warbeck." Bill kissed Hermione on the cheek, as well, before focusing on Ron.

"Nice catch," he told Ron, clapping his youngest brother on the back. "You really don't deserve someone so clever." Before Ron could retort, Bill pivoted to face Ginny and Harry before his courage fled, handing Victoire to Fleur.

"Congratulations!" Bill exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his sister, figuring that he loved her enough to pretend to be delighted for her, and, maybe, if he pretended it for long enough, it would become reality. "I'm so happy for you!"

Maybe she detected something that rang false in his tone, for she whispered in his ear as he squeezed her, "Are you really, or are you just making that up because you believe that it is polite to do so?"

Bill hesitated, because such a keen inquiry demanded an honest response. Ginny obviously loved Harry, and, from what he had seen, Harry felt the same way, and Harry was a good man. Undoubtedly, Ginny would be happy with him, and what sort of older brother would be be if he wasn't happy for her happiness, or if he hindered it with his displeasure.

"Yeah," he muttered back. "Of course I am happy for you."

Shoving her away from him, he shook hands with Harry. "Well, I guess you're really a member of the family, now," he remarked, and then turned away to find some champagne to soothe his nerves.


	83. Chapter 83

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to my parents, because my siblings already have a whole chapter dedicated to them, and I think that my parents did a great job raising me, considering they had a pretty crazy daughter to work with. So, thank you, Mom and Dad, for being the perfect combination of patient and stern with me. I love you both, even if we argue sometimes.

Author's Note: Now that I've finished my very first fanfiction, I wish to take this opportunity to extend my thanks to all my reviewers, especially those who reviewed regularly, because they inspired me to continue with this story, and provided me with invaluable feedback, and suggestions, and if anything about this fic is unsatisfactory, it is not their fault, but mine. I hope this finale lives up to your expectations.

By the way, I am aware that the name Dominique can function as both a boy's and a girl's name, but I am far more accustomed to it as the latter that in my mind's eye I can't see it being carried by a male, so I decided to make Bill's second child another daughter. (The name Dominique, of course, came from the Weasley family tree, which everyone has probably read by now, but if you haven't, you can find it on the Lexicon by typing in the "Weasley family". I'm still proud of myself, because I pictured Bill having three children in my head before JKR showed the tree, and I was right. Yes, I derive satisfaction from the stupidest things known to man, but how else would I keep my self-esteem up?) Anyway, it's just easier for me to picture Bill having two daughters, and one son in my head, for some reason. Now, that you've seen more of my psycho logic than you ever wanted to see, you can continue reading the last chapter, if you dare.

Epilogue: Deja vu —Three years later

It was six o'clock on Friday evening, and Bill had just begun to shampoo his hair in his customary after-work shower, while Fleur prepared supper downstairs in the kitchen, when three-week-old Dominique Apolline's wails pierced the air like an arrow in medieval warfare. Mentally grumbling about his second-born's decision to terminate her nap at this moment, he rinsed the soap out of his locks at lightning speed, then stepped out of the shower, toweled himself dry, and snatched his bathrobe off his hook on the bathroom door. Once he had tied it about himself, he hurried out of the bathroom, and across the hall into the nursery, which was next to three-year-old Victoire's room.

When he entered the nursery, he realized that his wife had arrived there first, and that she was changing a sodden Dominique into a dry diaper and nightshirt with her right hand, while she shook Victoire with her left. "Victoire Gabrielle, what in ze world were you thinking when you poured your beach bucket full of water all over your baby sister?" snapped Fleur.

In response, Dominique sobbed more voluminously than ever, because her mum's shrieking terrified her, and Victoire remained obstinately silent, her chin stuck out in a pose that Bill recognized as the one he employed whenever he was in the middle of an intense debate, and wished to indicate that he wasn't about to back down, or be intimidated. Witnessing it on someone else, even his daughter—no, especially her—was rather disconcerting.

"Answer me, or I'll spank you," snarled Fleur, as she affixed a fresh diaper around Dominique's bottom, and tossed the old one into the trash bin. This threat was mildly effective, because neither Bill nor his spouse had ever smacked their daughter before, but Victoire obviously sensed that this was an unpleasant prospect that she could live her whole life without experiencing.

"Teddy Lupin told me that if you pour water on somebody while they're asleep, they'll pee in their pants, Maman," replied Victoire, wrenching her arm out of her mum's clasp, and nimbly retreating from the irate Fleur. "I wanted to see if he was right. He wasn't. Dominique didn't pee. She just cried. Boring."

Seeing that his wife was about to explode at their older child, or possibly strangle her, either of which would probably traumatize poor, innocent Dominique forever, Bill suggested, "I'll deal with Victoire, and you can dress Dominique, and discover whether or not she'll go back to sleep now. I'll try to keep my voice down, although I'll make no promises."

"Very well, zen." Fleur offered a brusque nod of concession, as she commenced the battle of putting a new nightshirt upon their second daughter.

"Come with me," Bill ordered Victoire tersely, when his wife agreed to his proposal, pointing toward the hallway. "I want to talk with you."

"Don't wanna come with you, Daddy," protested Victoire, giving him a pout that was reminiscent of Fleur's.

"Tough luck," he observed dryly, resisting the urge to surrender to the pout that reminded him so much of his spouse's. Grabbing his daughter's elbow, he steered her out of the room, and toward the staircase, with her struggling against him the entire route. "In life, people don't always get what they want. For example, Dominique did not want to be drenched by a bucket of water from her older sister—"

"Hard to know for sure." Victoire shrugged, unabashed. "She can't talk."

Ignoring this interjection, Bill resumed, "Your mother didn't want to be interrupted in the midst of cooking supper for her family with her baby's wailing just because you upset her, and I really could have lived without being interrupted in the middle of my shower by the same event."

"Not my fault that it happened, Daddy," mumbled Victoire, as he released her, because they were far enough away from the nursery not to disrupt little Dominique. "It's Dominique's."

"Really?" Bill arched a skeptical eyebrow at his elder child, shocked by this statement. "Why is that?"

Victoire shot him a withering glance that was identical to her mum's. "If she hadn't been born, I wouldn't have poured water on her."

"Sorry, but you're going to have to be a bit more convincing than that." He shook his head at her, grateful that his scars concealed his wry amusement. More sternly, he went on, "Victoire, you are not to play anymore tricks like this upon your sister. Do you understand me?"

"I hate her. She'd deserve it if I did," growled Victoire, more than a trace of jealousy shading her tone.

"Still, you won't play anymore pranks on your little sister, regardless of how you feel about her. You're entitled to your own emotions, but you must learn to control them, or express them in socially acceptable fashions. For the record, soaking someone we don't like, especially when that person is younger than we are, is not considered socially acceptable, for some reason."

At this point, Victoire burst into tears. "I don't care about you!" she established defiantly. "And I don't care what you and Maman say!"

"Well, you've made the fact that you don't care about your mother and I apparent when you chose to disturb us by intentionally waking up your little sister," Bill responded, forcing his voice to remain level. If he was going to teach her a lesson in governing her emotions, he had to display that he had passed the course himself, and, besides, he didn't wish to bother Dominique, if she had been striving to return to dreamland. "You were selfish, and cruel to someone who is younger than you, and that is unacceptable. Go sit in the living room corner, and think about what you've done wrong."

"No time-out!" Victoire stamped her foot upon the floor, as if to punctuate her point. "I hate time-out!"

"That's why it's a punishment," he explained firmly, wondering why in the name of Merlin he felt like smiling when the situation was so serious.

Some trace of amusement must have revealed itself in his tone, for Victoire let out a battle cry worthy of the Amazons, as she launched her slender three-year-old body at him, and started punching his legs and chest, the only parts of him that she could reach, with her tiny fists. Although there was no real muscle behind her blows, they wounded him, somehow, and he snatched up her wrists, and gripped them tightly to get her attention.

"Listen to me, Victoire Gabrielle Weasley," he commanded in his most strict and unyielding manner. "Don't ever use violence to resolve your problems. Use words. Now, go sit in time-out, or else, I'll put you there until dinnertime."

Perhaps, Victoire detected the hint of steel in his voice or his eyes that she had never encountered before, for she cried, "You hate me, and so does Maman, but I don't care! I hate you two more than you hate me!"

Then, she fled downstairs, not affording Bill the chance to reply, even though he suspected that now was not the appropriate moment to soften his stance, so it was just as well that the temptation had vanished.

Sighing, Bill pivoted to head back into the shower, which he needed more than ever because it was a stark fact that raising a child made a man sweat, figuring that when he finished washing himself he would speak with his first-born, and explain to her that she was irreplaceable to him and Fleur, and that she would always be loved by them, and, therefore, she should try to open her heart to young Dominique. When he turned to return to their bathroom, he spotted his wife standing by the nursery door.

"Well, that was a blast in more ways than one," he complained to her, and she bestowed a slight smile upon him.

"You 'andled zat better zan I would 'ave," she informed him. "She learned why it is no fun to argue with you, anyhow."

"And why is it no fun to debate with me?" asked Bill, who was somewhat taken aback by this assessment, as Fleur was always perfectly willing to enter a verbal sparring match with him. Her willingness to engage in wars of wits was one of the nine million reasons that he loved her more than words could ever describe.

"Because you are so stubborn, you refuse to shout, which is 'alf ze fun of arguing with someone, and when you do feel ze need to give in, you always manage to accomplish it in such a manner that it seems as if you are right, but you are only conceding to ze other person, because you are more mature and generous," Fleur asserted.

"If it prevents her from behaving like this in the future, then I'm fine with that," chuckled Bill. "Still, I'm not looking forward to her teenage years, because if this is what she's like now, imagine what she'll be like once there are hormones raging inside her."

"You don't have to worry about zat," she reassured him. "After all, teenagers disagree with zeir same sex parent much more often zen zey argue with zeir opposite sex parent."

"That's surely not true," he disputed, "because I argued with my mother hundreds of times about chores, hair, dating, and style, but I only had one real argument with Dad."

"Well, zen zey argue with whoever is more combustible," allowed Fleur, "which would be me. I would 'ave lost my temper with 'er earlier, but you didn't."

"I didn't lose my temper simply because I could relate to Victoire," her husband admitted. "I guess you were too mature to feel envious of Gabrielle when she was born, but when Charlie was born, I was only two, and I was so jealous of him that I was greener than broccoli. I would have gone on hating him if my dad hadn't convinced me that people are allowed to love multiple beings at the same time, and that it can be a worthwhile experience to care for someone whom we love, rather than being the one that is cared for all the time." He paused, musing, and then confessed, "I'm still not entirely sure that I got over my first fear of being shunted aside, and that I didn't spend the rest of my life compensating for it. It might have been my fear of being inferior, and less worthy of love that drove me to get the grades I did, to become prefect, and Head Boy, and a Curse Breaker. It might have been my need for attention that made me want to be cool, and popular, and all that."

"Being ze oldest made you a caring and responsible person, too," Fleur reminded him, stroking his cheek. "Zat made you a good leader, which made you become popular, and led to you to be placed in positions of authority. It gave you ze raw materials to build yourself ze life that you wanted."

"Fair enough." He nodded. "Still, how much choice did I have? How much choice does anyone have?"

Fleur considered the question, and then reasoned, "I think zat life is like a massive game of cards. We are dealt a 'and of cards at ze outset, and we have to decide 'ow best to use zem to our advantage, even if all 'ands are not equal, and, sometimes, throughout ze game more cards are dealt, and we 'ave to integrate zem into our strategy as much as possible. In short, I think zat our environment gives us strengths and weakness, and we get to choose 'ow we will use zem. We are not slaves to fate, but we are not above it, either."

"That's a fine philosophical notion that I'll have to contemplate at greater length some other time. Well, don't worry about me, though, because I've always got a wild card stowed up my sleeve." Grinning, he kissed her, and then hurried off the complete his shower.

Ten minutes later, he descended the staircase, and walked into the living room, where Victoire was huddled in a ball in the far corner, sobbing into her arms, so that her whole slim frame quivered in sympathy. Biting his lip, because he did not enjoy causing his daughter to cry, he slid into the lounge chair opposite her, and pointed at the ground before him. "Come over to Daddy, Vic."

"No," Victoire sniffled, the arms she had wrapped about her head constricting her speech. "Don't wanna talk to you ever again, Daddy."

"Very well." Calmly, Bill scooped up that night's copy of the _Evening Prophet_ from the coffee table, and started scanning the headlines. "However, you won't be permitted to get up until I know that you've learned your lesson, so you won't be able to go anywhere until you've spoken with me."

"I hate you," whimpered Victoire.

Although the words twisted like a knife inside Bill's heart, which was doubtlessly his child's objective, all he said was, "I'm not here to be your friend, but your father. The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be."

For a long moment, in which a stifling quiet engulfed the room, Victoire chewed on her lower lip, tears trickling down her cheeks. Then, she shoved herself to her feet, and approached him, while he folded up his newspaper, and so he could regard her with his complete attention. "So, why did I put you in time-out?" he inquired.

"Because I'm bad," whispered Victoire.

"You aren't bad." Bill reached out, and tucked a stray strand of his daughter's hair behind her ear. "You're a good girl, who sometimes decides to be naughty. There's a difference. Tell what you did that was naughty this time."

"I was mean and selfish to pour water on Dominique, and disturb you and Maman," muttered Victoire, studying the carpet. "I won't do it again, I promise, Daddy."

"You'd better not." Bill smiled, but she did not notice, because she was examining every centimeter of the floor. "As even Uncle George invented a new prank every time he was put in time-out." He had ever told his daughter about Uncle Fred, or the war, or even about You-Know-Who, or why her Uncle Harry was gawked at when they went out in public, and now seemed like an inopportune moment to mention that Uncle George had an identical twin once named Fred, and that Fred had been killed in a battle on Victoire's birthday a year before she was born.

Maybe she heard a warning, rather than humor in his remark, for she asked, "Will you ever love me again, Daddy?"

"I'll always love you, no matter what you do, and I have always loved you, since your mother informed me that she was pregnant with you."

"Don't love me anymore." She shook her head in brisk negation. "Love Dominique now, not me."

Smiling, he picked her up, and settled her on his knee in one smooth motion. "I see. How silly of me. After all, a person can only love one other being at a time, it is a law of nature, just like gravity. That's why I stopped caring about your mother once you were born."

"You're making fun of me," glowered Victoire, refusing to soften, even when he pulled her closer to his chest.

"I'm not making fun of you," he answered quickly. "I understand how you're feeling." When she shot him a dubious glance, he added, "Remember, I was the oldest of many children, and I was a year younger than you are now when my brother Charlie was born. At first, I was envious of him, because I was positive that he had taken my place in my parents' hearts, and I didn't understand why in the world this was the case, since he was absolutely boring—he couldn't do anything, but sleep, drink Mum's milk, and poop. Essentially, I thought he was a waste of space."

"Just like Dominique is," noted Victoire, resting her head upon his chest now.

"Yes, like Dominique, except he was a boy. Anyway, I hated Charlie with a passion I usually reserved for turnips and broccoli until my dad, your grandpa, sat me down after I baptized the wall with a plateful of turnips that hearts have infinite room, and that our love for each other grows every time we learn to love somebody else, and he explained to me that it was my responsibility to care for Charlie, and I would be rewarded with Charlie's love. Well, I cared for him as bast I could, and I haven't regretted it for a moment. He became one of my best friends, someone I could confide in, rely upon, and who could make me laugh with his imitation of our mum, your grandma, and his Quidditch stunts. Vic, if I hadn't come to love him, and, later, the rest of my siblings, I would have been a different man—a lesser man. Without them, I wouldn't have learned how to be responsible, and I wouldn't have had nearly as much motivation to succeed, and my heart would have been seven sizes smaller."

"Does that mean that I'm supposed to try to love Dominique?" Victoire's eyes narrowed.

"The true lesson isn't what the teacher teaches, but what the student learns." Bill shrugged. "Make of my tale what you will, Vic, but, if you ask me, life is too short to go through it with a closed and hard heart that won't let anyone in, but you're the one who controls your life, not me. I just guide you for now."

As Fleur called them for supper, Victoire frowned, and then commented, "Tomorrow, I might play with Dominique for awhile. She likes when people shake her rattle for her."

"That's an excellent idea," Bill approved, as they entered the kitchen for dinner.


End file.
